VOL. XI. SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE. JANUARY, 1892. PARIS THEATRES AND CONCERTS. I. THE COM~DJE-FRAN~5AJSE AND THE OD~ON. By William F. Apthorp. No. 1. No T far from the great Halles-Cen- trales, on the corner of the new, wide, and bright rue Etienne Mar- cel, and of the old, narrow, and dingy rue Fran~aisewhich name, by the way, is still pronounced, as it used to be writ- ten, Frar~oise, at the Maison de Moli~re stands a house which few passers-by would suspect of having any interest for the antiquary. With its light-buff Paris freestone, its wealth of ornamental carv- ing and iron balconies, it has little to distinguish it from the average modern corner-house in the city par excellence of magnificent corners. Its short frontage on the rue Fran9aisein which it is No. 5its long stretches of fa~ade on the rue Etienne Marcel and the rue Maucon- seil, which runs at a slightly divergent angle behind it from the rue Fran9aise to the rue Montorgucil, make it a fair type of that bevel corner which is per- haps the most striking architectural beauty of Paris streets. It is a perfectly commonplace building, like a thousand others in the capitaL Approaching it from the rear, as you are most likely to do, up the rue Fran~aise from the rue de Turbigo and the Halles, you find it suggestive only of the flaunting mod- ern splendor of the rue Etienne Marcel, overflowing and encroaching upon the sedate dinginess of the older side streets. Its ground floor is occupied by one of those not easily classifiable places of re- freshm~zLt which are common enough in the less fashionable quarters of the city, and combine in themselves the several distinctive features of the caf& restau- rant, the brasserie, and the estaminet. Except to the hungry or thirsty, the house presents only one interesting feature: it stands on the site of the old H6tel de Bourgogne, for nearly a century the first theatre in Paris. From early in the reign of Louis XIII. the actors at the H6tel de Bourgogne were known collectively as the Troupe royale des com~diens; up to near the time of the death of Louis XIV. they held a quasi-official position. In 1600 there came about a split in the company. Half the actors seceded from it, and set up for themselves in the Marais, under the condition of paying an & u tournois, or Tours dollar, to the elder establish- ment for every performance they should give. The new company, which was known from first to last as the Gom~diens du 3larais, opened at the H6tel dAr- gent, in rue de la Poterie, near the place de la Grave. In 1632 or 1633 it moved to the jen de paume (tennis- court) de la Fontaine, in the rue Michel-le-Comte. But the people of quality and foreign diplomatists who lived in the rue Michel-le-Comte and the rue du Grenier-Saint-Lazare, soon objected to the theatre as an undesir- able neighbor, and in 1635 the Th& itre du Marais had to move once more, to a tennis - court in the rue Vicille - du- Temple, about half - way between the rue de la Perle and the rue des Cofi Copyright, 1891, by Charles 5cs~bners Sons. All rights reserved. PARIS THEA TRES AND CONCER TS. Site of the Old Th~~tre-Gu~n~gaud in the rue des Foss~s-de-NesIe, now rue Mezarine. tures-Saint-Gervais. Here it remained until the company was disbanded, in 1673. The H6tel de Bourgogne and the Th~tre du Marais were the two rivals with which Moli~re had to compete in Paris. At first there could hardly have been any question of competition, for MolThres first appearances in the capital do not seem to have been particularly brilliant, as they certainly were far from lucrative. In 1643 he joined some other actors in founding the Jllustre-Th~tre, which led a rather precarious and bailiff- 4 7- PARIS THEA TRIES AND CONCER TS. 5 ridden existence for four years, or so, in various tennis-courts on the left bank of the Seine. One wonders, by the way, what was happening to the game of tennis in those times! The number of apparently disused tennis-courts that were then found available for theatrical purposes was, as Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esq., would say, to say the least, re- markable. In four years the Illustre- Th& ~tre successively occupied three: the jeu de paume des M~tayers, in the rue des Foss6s-de-Nesle (now No. 12, rue Mazarine) ; in 1645 the jeu de paume de la Croix-Noire, in the rue des Barr~s, and, a few months later, the jeu de paume de la Croix-Blanche, in the rue de Buci. About a year after this last move Moli~re and his company left Paris for the provinces. He must, however, have laid at least the foundations of a professional repu- tation in those four hard years in the laubourg Saint-Germain, and have won enough laurels afterward in the prov- inces to pique metropolitan curiosity. For, on his return to Paris, in 1658, the first thing he did was to give a special performance by command in the Salle des Gardes in the Louvre, before King, Monsieur, and court. The bill was Cor- neilles Nicom~de, with Moli~res own Le docteur amoureux (since lost) as after-piece. Of course MoliZtre spoke an address to the King between the two plays. It is noticeable in this address, that, besides the usual soft speeches to royalty, Moli~tre went almost out of his way to pay a few highly-seasoned com- pliments to the Troape royale of the HStel de Bourgogne, intimating that he and his poor fellow-players had no no- tion of rivalling that famous company in such things as Corneilles tragedy, but that they would now, with the royal permission, play a little piece of their own in their own way (4 leur marmire), which they hoped would not prove un M. Got, Dean of the Com6die-Fran~aise. 6 PARIS THEA TRES AND CONCER TS. M. Mounet-Sully, of the Com4die-FranQaise. worthy. . . . etc., etc. Moli~re plainly knew which his best foot was, and meant to put it well foremost. The result was as might have been expected. Long before the year was out, Mo- li~tre and his company were installed in the H6tel du Petit-Bourbon, with the of- ficial title of Com~diens de Monsieuronly they had to share the theatre with the Com6die-Italienne, the latter having the right to give four performances a week. This H6tel du Petit-Bour- bon has long since disap- peared ; its exact site, espe- cially the part of it in which the theatre was, is even prob- lematical. But the h6tel is known to have covered part of the present rue du Lou- vre, between Saint-Germain- lAuxerrois and the Seine, and part of the ground now occupied by the south- east corner of the Louvre itself, with its courtyard and garden. It was torn down in 1660, to make way for the exten- sion of the Louvre; and Moli~tres com- pany was transferred to the Th6~ttre du Palais-Royalstill sharing it, however, with the Com6die-Italienne. It is im- portant to remember that this theatre was neither the present cosy little house of that name, nor the one now occupied by the Com~die-Fran~aise, both of which are within the precincts of the Palais- Royal itself; it stood on the northeast corner of the rue Saint-Honor6 and the rue de Valois. Its history is prin- cipally connected with that of the Acad6mie de Musique (the Op6ra); but Moli~res company and the great dra- matist himself did act in it for several years. It was the first theatre in Paris built especially for the purpose. Lully, who was director of the Acad~mie de Musique, had his eye upon it; but Moli~re was apparently too valuable a man, in the way of furnishing good li- bretti on occasion, for him to quarrel with just then, and Lully was content to bide his time. It came soon enough~ MolThre died in 1673, and his company had given only twelve performances after his death, when the wily Italian, who was a master M. Coquelin cadet, of the Com~die-~ran9aise. 7 in intrigue as well as in composition, very time the old Th6Atre du Marais, in had them and the Com6die-Jtalienne the rue Yieille-du-Temple, broke up, evicted from the Palais-IRoyal theatre, about half of the company entering the to make way for the Op6ra. At this HOtel de Bourgogne, and the other Site of the Old Th6& tre Frangain (16891770) in the rue den Fosn6s-Saint-Germain-des-Pr& s (now rue de Ancienne Com~die). PARIS THEA TRES AND CONCERTS. 7 8 PARIS THEA TRES AND CONCER TS. half joining Mo]ii~res troupe in a new enterprise. They and the Com~die - Italienne were they never to be delivered from that exotic Old-Man- of-the-Sea?hired the Th6~tre - Gu6ne- gaud,* and were of- ficially allowed to assume the title of Com~diens du Boy. This was no mean distinction, and the H6tel de Bourgogne showed its apprecia- tion of the fact by henceforth styling itself on its playbills: La SEULE troupe roy- ale (the omly royal troupe). Competi- tion was competition even in those days, and not an inch of vantage gronnd was to be conceded to the enemy; there might be as many Kings troupes as you please, but only one royal troupe! The Gazette, eager to do its part toward npholding the pres- tige of what was still undeniably the pre- mi~re s e n e frau- raise, followed suit in always mention- ing the H6tel de Bourgogne as la seule troupe royale. The Th6~itre-Gu6- n6gaud was the old jen de paume de la Bouteille, in the rue des Foss~s-de-Nesle (now rue Mazarine), in the fanbourg Saint-Germain. Per- rin, Cambert, and the Marquis de Sour- d~ac had had it changed into a theatre for the Acad~mie de Musique some time before Lully had jockeyed them out of their concession, and assumed the di- rection of that institution himself. In- deed, it was (167172) the first royal * The acute accent had not grown upon the second e .111 those days. opera-house in Paris. It was only fif- teen doors east of the old jeu de paume des M~tayers, in which Molii~re had made his first bow before a Paris audi- ence in the Illustre- Th6~tre, in 1643. Its site is now occupied by the passage du Pont-Neuf and the houses Nos. 42 and 44 rue Mazarine, running back as far as the rue de Seine; it stood opposite the end of the rue Gu6- n6gaud, which runs from the rue Maza- rine down to the qnai Conti and the river. The new venture was more and more snccessful; some noted actors even left the H6tel de Bour- gogne and joined the Th6~tre -Gu~n6gand, bringing with them important additions to the repertory in the shape of famous tragedies. The tragic repertory of Moli~res troupe had never amonnted to very much ; its strength lay mainly in MoliZ~res own comedies. Almost all the great tragedies of Racine and Cor- neille belonged by right to the H6tel de Bourgogne. But the wind was shifting, and the final blow was soon to come. In 1680, by order of the King, the whole Troupe royale of the Hotel de Bourgogne crossed the river and joined the Com~diems du Boy at the Th6~itre- Gn6n6gand, the two troupes thns form- ing a single organization, under the offi- cial title of COM~mE - FEAKyAIsE. The Com6die - Italienne passed over to the H6tel de Bourgogne, where it remained up to the end of the eighteenth centnry. Thus was the world-famous Com6die- Mile. R4jane, of the Od6on. ~HOM A PHOTOGRAPH. Foyer des Artistes. SW ANDREW. (At the Th~tre Frasv~rais.) 10 PARiS THEA TRES AND ~ON~ER TS. M. Sylvain, of the Fran~aise officially born and baptized. It was essentially and primarily Mo- li~tres old company, increased and im- proved by absorbing, first, a half of the troupe of the Th& ttre du Marais, and then the whole troupe of the H~te1 de Bourgogne itself, which latter already com- prised the otber half of the old Marais company. On its opening night the new-born Com~die-Fran- ~taise gave Ph?dre and the Carrosses dOr- l6ans; the receipts amounted to 1,424.25 francs (about $284.85). Tempora mutantur, box- office receipts et mutantur in illis! I have thought it worth while to go into these historical details, princi- pally to show as clearly as might be exactly what connection there was be- tween Moli~re and that wonderful institution which we all know as the Co in ~t di c-Fran ~ a is e. Moli~re was virtually its founder, although the in- stitution itself did not spring into official exist- ence until some years af- ter his death. Another aim I had in view was to give the reader some idea, not so much of the theatrical history, as of the theatrical topogra- phy, of Paris at a time when several of its most important present insti- tutions were undergoing a process of crystalliza- tion. From its foundatio in 1680, the Com~die- Fran9aise has had a pret- ty troubled existence. Its woes began soon enough. The rue des Foss~s - de - Nesle, or, if the reader prefers its present name, the rue Mazarine, ended not far from the rue Gu6n6gaud, at the rear of the Coll6ge Mazarinwhere the Institut de France now standsand it M. de F6raudy, of the Com4die-Fran~aise. Com~d ie-Francaise. PARIS THEA TRES AND CONCEP TS. 11 was soon found that the propinquity of a fashionable theatre had a deplorable effect upon the manners, not to speak of the morals, of the collegians. So the Com6die had to move on. In 1689 it~ bought the jeu de paume de lEtoile and two abutting houses in the rue des Foss~s-Saint-Germain-des- Pros (now rue de lAncienne-Com6die), running back nearly to the rue des Mauvais - Gar~ons * (now rue Gr~goire- de-Tours). Here it built itself a new theatre, Fran9ois dOrbay being the architect; its site is now occupied by the house No. 14 rue de lAncienne- Com6die, and by all but the front wall of Nos. 17 and 19 rue Gr~goire-de- Tours. Directly opposite it, in the rue de lAncienne-Com~die, still stands the once famous Caf6 de Procope; its shut- ters are down, and a placard with Lo- cal d louer hangs from them. But it has not been closed long, and its sign is still in tolerable repair. * The present rue des Mauvais-Gar~ons is in a wholly different part of the city, across the river. The Com6die-Fran~aise kept on at this theatre in the rue des Foss~s-Saint- Germain-des-Pr~s, for nearly a century, until the house reached such a pitch of dilapidation, that all further repairing was hopeless. In 1770, it moved to the Salle des Machines, in the Tuileries, and active measures were taken to provide it with a new permanent theatre. After much discussion, the site of the H6tel Cond~, in the faubourg Saint-Germain, was fixed upon, and the new theatre was built exactly where the Th~tre de lOd6on now stands. The Com~die opened it, as the Th~tre-Fran~ais, on March 30, 1782. In 1789, its name was changed to Th~1tre de la Nation, but the members of the company still re- tained their old title of Com~diens fra~npais ordirtaires du Poi. Of the subsequent history of the Com~die Fran9aise, I need say little; for many years it was too full of inci- dent to be related briefly. It will only be important for my present purpose to give the few following facts: In 1791 a Mile. Dudlay ef the Cem6die-Fran~aise. PARIS THEA TRES AND CONCER TS. series of internal dissensions in the com- his comrades at the Th6~ttre de la Li- pany, fomented in part by the political bert~ et de lgalit~ in the Palais-iRoyal, events of the Revolution, ended in the or did it stay with the other faction at withdrawal of Talma and about half the Th~tre de lEgalit~ in the faubourg the other members. These seceders, Saint-Germain? Of course both parties headed by Talma, Mine Dugazon, and claimed to be the only and original Co- Mine Vestris, m ~ d i e - Fran- crossed the 9aise. The Tal- river to the ma party was theatre now certainly the occupied by more success- the Com~die- ful of the two; Fran~aise [it itstayedonun- was built in molested in the 1788, and had P alais-Royal, been opened, while the oth- as the Th6~tre ers, forced to des Yari6t~s- quit their thea- Amusantes du tre in 1795, led Palais-Royal, a very nomadic in 1790]. Tal- existence dur- ma and his fol- ing the next lowers from four years, act- the Th~Atre de ing from time la Nation, re- to time at the opened it on Th6atre-Fey- April 27, 1791, dean, the Th6f~- as the Th6iiitre tre -Lou v o is, de la Thpub- and the neigh- lique, which boring Theatre name was de la Rue de la changed after Loi, the Thea- the famous tre-F ava rt, Tenth of Au- even at the gust, 1793, to Th~tre du Th~tre de la Maraisnot Libert6 et de the old, long- lIT~galit~t. The Mile. Reichenberg, of the Com~die Frangaise. closed one in remainder of the rue Vicille the original company of the Th& ittre de du-Temple, but a newer, smaller one in la Nation, stayed on at their house in the the rue Culture-Sainte-Catherineuntil, faubourg Saint-Germain, until it was in 1799, most of the troupe at last joined closed by order of the Comit6 du Salut- Talma and his followers. The first per- Public on September 3, 1793. They formance by the reunited Com6die-Frau- opened again, though, next year, as Th6?t- ~aise was given in the theatre which it has tre de lEgalit6, in the same house, after occupied ever since on May 30, 1799. adding to their number a whole troupe of Mile Montansiers, from the Th& ttre de la Rae de la Loi * (rue de Richelieu). The question now arises, precisely where was the Com6die-Fran~taise at this period? Did the apostolic suc- cessions of Moli~re go to Talma and * This theatre was pulled down long ago. It covered the larger part of what is now the square Lonvois, oppo- site the Bib1ioth~qneNationale on the rue de iRichelien; it is not to he confounded with the neighhoring Thditre- Louvois. Of all theatres in Paris the Th6~tre- Fran~aisby which term I mean the theatre itself, not the companyis the most evidently and unmistakably his- toric. On entering the building, every- thing that meets your eye impresses you at once with the fact that the place, and the institution which has made it fa- mous, have a history. There is hardly a picture, statue, or bust, that does not 12 PARIS THEATRES AND CONCERTS. 13 recall some incident in the life of the stories out of one, although there is no Com6die-Fran~aise, or show the likeness visible entresoL The walls are literally of some great manstatesman, drama- covered with pictures, mostly portraits; tist, or actorwho was intimately and a fine full-length of Rachel meets you specifically connected with the history on the first landing. From this point, of the institution. There is no trace of if it be in the afternoon, sounds as of that rather vague homage to the declamation are likely to meet your ear. worlds great men, of which one finds When you reach the first floor, you find tokens in many public buildings. Here that it is well to know your way, for everything is specific ; you can safely several doors are more or less ajar, and, ask of every portrait, either on canvas if you imprudently push one open, you or in marble: What has this man or are pretty sure to come plump upon a woman done toward the glory of the young man declaiming as for dear life house? The answer will surely be: in solitary confinement, with the roll Something!, And if this is true of containing his part~~ clutched in one those portions of the building which are hand, with all the frenzy of tragic fer- open to the public, it is doubly so of the vor and imperfect memory. Retreating inner private rooms, staircases, and cor- in apologetic confusion, you may fall ridors which are affected to the use of from Scylla into Charybdis, and find the management and actors. A glimpse yourself in the sacred precincts of the behind is well worth taking. Leave the doors on the rue de Richelien and the place du Th6fitre-Fran~ais to the pro- fane throng, and go in at the door on the place du Palais-Royal, over which is inscribed Administration. Few sights in all Paris are more interest- ing. Entering through the large glass double doors, you address yourself to the blue-uniformed concierge in the rather unusually spacious loge on your left hand. Nine times out of ten you find this functionary chatting com- panionably with a small group of so- ci~taires or pensionnaires. His faith in the sacredness of the institution of which he is supposed to guard the out- er door is that of the charcoal - burn- er; he seems never to have entertained the idea that anyone would dare to at- tempt an entrance who had no business to enter. No matter what question you ask him, the first two or three words of it are hardly out of your mouth before he answers: Lescalier 4 gauche, au premier. (The left-hand staircase, first floor.) I have never known him in a single instance to depart from this for- mula ; after two or three trials you give M. Febvre, of the Com~die-Fran~aise. it up, and pass by his loge with no questions asked on either side. Turn- foyer des artistes, where two more young ing to your left, and passing through men are lustily belaboring each other more glass doors, you go up the stair- with alexandrines. But a little caution case, which ever and anon turns at a will enable you to keep to the corridor, right angle with itself, and, like almost where some antique monarch in full re- all Paris staircases, seems to make two gahia, fresh from stage rehearsal, or else 14 PARIS THEA TRES AND CONCER TS. an actor, or, still better, actress, in mod- ern dress, will be sure to answer a civil question with more than corresponding civility and graciousness. More glass doors! On the right, a little office in which an uniformed officialthe visual counterpart and moral opposite of the one downstairsis very particular in inquiring about your business; on the left, the office of M. Monval, the sec- retary, through which you passor, rather, you do not pass, if the strict truth be toldinto the sanctum of M. Jules Claretie, the director of the Com& - die-Fran~aise. M. Claretie, even before he assumed the directorship of the Com~die, was generally reputed to be one of the busiest men in all Paris; as man of letters, journalist, and acad- emician, he is equally indefatigable. M. Worms of the Com6die-Fran~aise There used to be a legend that he regu- larly turned out his thousand lines of copy every day before breakfast. Now he has practically retired from active journalism; but his direction of the Com~die-Fran9aise must be more than an equivalent for that work. Yet, noted as he is as novelist, dramatist, journalist, and director, he has one faculty which many another busy man of letters might envy him still more the faculty of be- ing utterly invisible! I know that he exists, that there really is such a man, and that he is no mere mythical Mr. Harris, because I have to thank him, and heartily too, for many helpful kind- nesses; but it has never been my privi- lege to meet him face to face. With M. Monval, however, the sec- retary, librarian, and archivist of the Society, it is far otherwise; he is ap- proachability itself. He is one of the most distinguished Molit~re scholars now going indeed, his face, with its keen, humorous eyes, and long-flowing brown-black mane, presents some- thing of a likeness to the great Jean-Baptiste Poquelin and has made his mark in the world of let- ters as a theatrical historian. But, efficient and gracious as M. Monval is at his secretarys desk in the Administration wing of the the- atre, you see him at his best in his more congenial domain, the library and archives. I have never met a man who had more, or more exact, statistical information stored in his memory. I have heard it said that Mr. Jay Gould knows every railway station in the United States by heart; the number of facts and dates in the history of the ComCdie- Fran~aise and its offshoot and com- panion, the Od~on, that M. Monval can give you at a moments notice, strike me as indicating a not less remarkable power of memory. But I have strayed into the library, which is away off on the other side of the building, on the third floor, looking out on the place du Th(~tre- Fran9ais, whereas my present busi- ness is on the place du Palais-IRoyal side. The first time I went there and mounted the staircase I have tried to describe, was by appointment with M. Coquelin, of whom I had had the good luck to see a good deal, both profes- sionally and socially, during his visit to the United States. I was a little before PARIS THEA TRES AND CONCER TS. 15 ny time, and was shown into the foyer des artistes to wait for him ; so I had a mute or two to look about me. This time I had the room to myself, as there was no partial rehears- ing going on. I am not a good hand at poetry, so I will now -eep to myself whatever feelings may have been aroused in me by my first coming into the most famons greenroom in the world. I will leave them to the imagi- nation of anyone who loves and respects the stage as mnch as I do. The foyer itself is a large, oblong, high-studded roomwe shoul call it a hallrichly dec- orated in the rococo styleat least, I think it is the rococo style, but any architect is at lib- erty to correct me here ; for aught I know, it may be the very purest Lonis XV.; I am not lear ed in these things. All I know is that the general impres- sion is one of elaborate gorgeous- ness, rendered sedate and mellow by time. The walls are covered vith pictures and mirrors; but, before I have time to examine the former, in comes M. Coquelin, who with that bustling bonhomie which is peculiarly his own, forth- with grasps me by the elbow, and hurries me off through a labyrinth of passages, upstairs and down, to see an undress stage-rehearsal of Les four- beries de Scapin, in which he himself, his brother, Coquelin cadet, and his son are to take part. Moli~res Malade imaginaire, and Fourberies de Scapin, revived with les trois f%quelin in the cast, have been among the theatrical events of the sea- son of 189091 at the Th~& tre - Fran- ~ais. This plan of bringing the three merubeis of the same family upon the tage together has been variously com- n e ted upon by the Paris critical press. I ay have my own opinion of it, but that is not to the point here. It was cer- tainl inexpressibly int& esting to me, a a stranger, to see the three Coquelins together in the same play, even though I mibht feelas was undoubtedly the casethat the more famous father and uncle rather effaced themselves, in more ways than one, so as to give greater relief to the acting of young Jean Coquelin. It is not every young pen- sionnaire who has the luck to do lead- ing business with two such partners to play into his hand, with all the sympa- thy that comes from common blood, and all the skill of veterans. But to our rehearsal! Constant vigi- lance was the price of something in his- toryI forget exactly hatand con- stant rehearsing is, and ever was, the price of the position the Com6die-Fran- (aise has won for itself among the great dramatic companies of the world. If we look into the matter closely, we find that the Com6die is perhaps quite as famous for its rehearsing as for its act- ing. It has been said often enough that, to attend a working rehearsal at the Th& ~ttre-Fran9ais was to take a lesson, not only in the ways and means of his- trionic art, but also in the great general art of painstaking, of attention to mi- nute details. Such a rehearsal is well worth seeing by anyone who likes to Mine Worms-Sarretta of the Com~d~e-Frars~aise. ENGRAVED BY C BUTLER DRAWN BY EUG MORAND. An Undress Rehearsal at the Com6diB-FrBflQ5iSB PARIS THEATRES AND CONCERTS. 17 study the way in which things are done perfectly; it is quite as instructive in the general ethics of perfect perform- ance as in the specific art of acting. I must say, however, to begin with, that the rehearsal of the Fourberies de Scapin I saw was not a particu- larly good example. As M. Coquelin admitted to me afterward, the play was too nearly d point, too nearly ready for performance to make the rehearsal especially interesting, as a rehearsal; things went too smoothly. But, if it was not the lesson in minute painstak- ing I had expected, it was a superb example of that equally important wis- dom of doing just enough, of not wast- ing force. When Spontini was musical director of the Court Opera in Berlin, he had the name of being the most wonderful conductor of a rehearsal that had ever been known at that institution. His care for both details and ensemble, and his personal power of getting the maximum of work out of all the forces under his bAton, were well-nigh unex- ampled. But his method of rehearsing had one grave vice: it tired out both singers and orchestra. It is said that, at a first performance of a new opera of his, the whole company was sure to be half dead with fatigue before the curtain rose. I was glad to note noth- ing of this overtaxing sort of rehearsal in what I saw at the Th6Atre-Fran9ais. There was abundant painstaking and not a little fault-finding at times; some passages were repeated over and over again until they went just right; but the general guiding principle seemed to be to let well-enough alone. Interest- ing it certainly was as anything I ever saw. As I was ushered upon the stage by M. Coquelin, the scenery was nearly in place ; which fact, however, did not pre- vent some pretty sharp admonitions to the scene-shifters, coupled with exclama- tions to the effect that nothing was ever ready in time, falling from the great actors lips. After a hurried hand- shake with Jean Coquelin, I am again taken in charge by the father, who points out to me a seat in the last row of the orchestra-stalls, just in front of the parterre, and next to the baignoires on the right, with the command to put VOL. XI.2 myself there and efface myself. I am the only occupant of the half-dark salle, except one other man, who seems to be- long there, and sits where he pleases, shifting from seat to seat, as if to get a view of the rehearsal from various points of the compass. He smiles upon me benignly from time to time, and seems to invite me to make myself at home. The rehearsal begins; the actors are in their ordinary street dress, most of the men have their billicock or stove- pipe hats on, M. Coquelin wearing his pushed far back, and much on one side, which gives him rather a rakish air, curiously at variance with the part of Ar~qante. He carries his Malacca joint, probably as a conventional attribute of senilitythe only concession he makes to theatrical make-up. Besides Coque- lin ain6, as Argante, there is Coquelin cadet, as G& onte, and Jean Coquelin, as Scapin himself. I have already said that the rehearsal was hardly a charac- teristic one; as it was the only one I saw, I can give here only some general impressions. First and foremost of these is the ineffectiveness of the whole thing. It is not that the actors merely walk through their parts, for they do anything but that; they throw them- selves into their business with immense spirit and energy. But their speech and action reflect only the general drift of their lines; there is little or no at- tempt to d~tailler, as it is called in France: to throw into relief certain crucial words in a sentence, to produce effects of finesse in by-play, facial ex- pressions, or vocal inflection. It is all monotonous, and, save for the impres- sion everyone gives of being perfectly at home, and the beautiful distinctness of utterance and elegance of speech, it seems terribly like the acting of ama- teurs. You are conscious of the me- chanism, you see the wires pulled ; everything militates against dramatic effect, and makes for disillusion. It is very curious to note how a given facial expression fails in producing its in *ended dramatic impression, when you have caught the actor in the process of assuming it. Then, you find yourself constantly wanting to cry out to this or that actor: Stop, stop! my good man, 18 PARIS THEATRES AND CONCERTS. that sentence can be made ten times as effective as you have just made it! Which goes to show, perhaps, that the acting, in spite of its ineffectiveness, must be pretty good, after all, else it would not keep you continually so near the point of dramatic illusion, and so lure you on to expecting every minute to receive a really dramatic impression. It comes near enough to a good per- formance to make you forget every now and then that it is only a rehearsaL It goes smoothly enough, almost the only hitches being occasioned by a word or two of advice to Jean Coquelin from his father or his uncle, advice which is seen to bear good fruit as soon as the passage in question is gone over again. Only once is there a serious stoppage: at the place where Scapin, lying on the ground, pretends to have been robbed and beaten by footpads. Here it takes some time fully to satisfy either father or uncle, and at last there is nothing for it but for the elder Coquelin, with his glossy stove-pipe still on the back of his head, to throw himself bodily upon his belly, and, with arms gesticu- lating and legs kicking in the air, to show by practical example how the thing is to be done. It is a sight for the gods; and the lesson does not have to be repeated, for, as soon as Coquelin the elder has once more regained his feet, down goes Coquelin the younger again, and shows this time that he is quite up with the traditions of the house. The Zerbinette of the day is Mile Kalb~ An hour or two before the re- hearsal I had heard her discuss Zerbi- nettes famous laughing speech with M. Sarcey, the critic; they both agreed that this speech was the most difficult tirade in any soubrette part in the whole classic repertory. I have not the text now by me, and cannot give the exact number of lines it contains; but it is very long, it is full of important matter, not a word of which must be lost upon the audience, and it is one uninter- rupted, ebullient, irrepressible fit of ringing laughter from beginning to end a speech for Ilosina Yokes! Being forewarned, I am all agog with curiosity as Kalb-Zerbinette trips forward upon the stage in her neat little black walk- ing-dress, swinging her tiny astrakhan muff in the air. Her bright, jovial face is, in itself, enough at any time to put one in good - humor: the most intelli- gent, humorous face of any actress I have seen in Parisas its possessor is one of the brightest women it has ever been my good fortune to meet. I am soon able to appreciate the immense dif- ficulty of the tirade; but I am not car- ried away. Not a syllable is lost, and the silvery laughter rings out bravely; but it sounds forced and monotonous, and I seem to hear the wires creaking in their sheaths. It is like the rest of the rehearsal : immensely interesting, but nothing more. I do not think the trouble lies in the absence of costume or in the occa- sional interruptions. The rather dim light, and the actors faces not being made up, may have more to do with it; for, without stage-paint, the features seem but vaguely outlined, and the fa- cial expression lacks snap and pungency. Be the difficulty what it may, only one of the company surmounts it triumph- antly, and this one is Coquelin ain6. This wonderful artist is effective through- out; every look tells, every sentence carries its full weight of meaning! It makes me think of what I once heard M. Coquelin say, in the heat of debate: I will act you the trial scene in the Juif polonais here, on this table, without scenery, or lights, or costume, et vous men direz des nouvellest I fully believe him. But, be the rehearsal what it might, the performance, two or three days later, was a different matter altogether. Not that it was an ideally fine one, for it was hardly that. The Paris press was nearly unanimous in praise of it, the only seriously dissenting voice com- ing from M. Sarceyand I must say that I pretty much agreed with him. Too much was sacrificed to les trois Coq~wlin, to the mere fact of their act- ing together in the same play. No doubt the three names looked exceed- ingly well on the posters; but what looks well on the posters does not al- ways produce the same effect on the stage. When young Jean Coquelin was in America, we could see with half an eye PARIS THEATRES AND CONCERTS. 19 that he was a born actor, and that he had been formed in an admirable school. He has made vast strides since, and acts with more authority than any man of his short experience I ever saw; he has the coolness and self-possession of an old hand. Still, one may be an ex- cellent actor, and yet fall considerably short of filling such a part as Moli~res Scapin; to show us that perfection of heroic impudence takes the very finest art. Jean Coquelin acts the part cred- itably, but it is as yet too heavy a load for his young shoulders. Of his fathers Argante it can only be said that, like almost everything this wonderful actor does, it was perfection itself, albeit lacking something of bril- liancy of effect. Whether it was that M. Coquein intentionally took the part on a rather low key in order to give greater relief to his sons acting, or that the part itself is not particularly con- genial to him, I could not determine. It was an extremely finished and telling piece of acting, but it gave one no idea of the actors full power; in point of effectiveness it was nowhere in com- parison with what M. Coquelin does as Diafoirus in Le malade imaginaire. Coquelin cadets G& onte seemed to me thoroughly bad. The Cadet was the only one of the family I had not seen before, and my curiosity to see him was great. That he is a Coquelin, through and through, is evident at once. He has the Coquelin voice, to begin with; it is higher than his brothers, and more veiled in quality, often approach- ing the falsetto character; but it has the unmistakable Coquelin tang to it. His utterance has not or, perhaps I should rather say, does not seem to have that beautiful, clean - cut fin- ish for which his brother and nephew are notable; every syllable does not stand out in such absolute distinctness. But, by some magic, he makes you hear every word; you do not feel that he is speaking particularly distinctly, but somehow you catch without effort all he says. He has infinite personal charm; as soon as he comes upon the stage you feel that you like him. His chief fault, or rather his misfortune, seems to be that he is out of place at the Com6die-Fran9aise. He has little versatility, and is essentially a low- comediana low-comedian through and through. His forte is what might be called refined buffoonery, a sort of phy- sical drollery that would not shock you even at close quarters, in your own drawing-room, but still buffoonery pure and simple. He is the king of fun- makers; they say that his Pierrot is in- imitable, and he is especially famous in comic monologue. As Coquelin aln6 tends naturally and instinctively to- ward high comedy in all that he does, Coquelin cadet tends just as instinct- ively and irresistibly toward low com- edy and farce. Now, the opportunities an actor with this peculiar cast of tal- ent has of finding congenial parts in the repertory of the Com6die-Fran9aise are few and far between. He would be overwhelming at the Palais-Royal or the Yari6t6s, whereas he is oftener than not downright bad at the Fran9ais. And yet, curiously enough, he has unmistak- ably what the soci6taires of the Com6- die-Fran9aise call with no little pride lair de la maison the air of the house; a certain indefinable something that distinguishes the members of the Maison de Moli~re from all other actors in Paris. They say that you can tell an Etonian even in his third year at Ox- ford or Cambri~1ge; I believe that, if you saw Coquelin cadet on the Palais- Royal stage, you could tell that he came from the Com~die-Fran9aise. He has the finish, the refinement, in fine, the peculiar je ne sais quoi, that belongs to the first theatre. If anyone else had acted G~ronte as he acted the part, he would have been not bad, but simply execrable. I cannot leave this perform- ance of Les fourberies de Scapin without one word more about Mile Kalb. What she did at rehearsal gave no notion at all of the effect of her delivery of Zerbinettes laughing speech at the performance: it was overwhelm- ing, irresistible! I have heard that the late Jeanne Samary was even better in this speech, but I find it hard to believe it. To my mind, a decidedly better per- formance, as a whole, of a Moli~re com- edy was that of Le malade irnaginaire. I missed Coquelin cadet, as Purgon, for he was ill the night I saw the play; but 20 PARIS THEATRES AND CONCERTS. Coquelin ain6, as Diafoirus, and Jean Coquelin as his son, Thomas, were two figures never to be forgotten. Habitual theatre-goers must remember certain especially effective entrances upon the stage of this or that great actor as high tides in their dramatic experience. Irvings first entrance as Louis XI., Sal- vinis as Corrado, in La morte civile, are, each in its way, moments worth many a whole act. Coquelins entrance, as Diafoirus, the doctor, followed by Jean Coquelin as Me too (alias Thomas), may be ranked with these; as soon as he came on, the others, as the French say, nexistaiertt plusthey no longer existed; it was great! If the first place in the Com6die-Fran- qaise can rightly be given to any one ac- tor, Coquelin ain6 is certainly that one. Still, there are others in the company who do not stand far behind him. Take, for instance, Got, the dean of the Com6die; he is, in certain ways, about as perfect an actor as can well be imag- ined. He has one faculty, which, con- sidering what an actors profession is, is singularly and surprisingly rare on the stage: the faculty of disguising himself. With one exception, I know of no actor whose whole physiognomy is so totally transformed by making-up, who looks so unrecognizably different in different parts, as Got. The one ex- ception is de F6raudy, in the same com- pany. Whether it is that both men have naturally rather insignificant faces, without strongly marked features, and that countenances of this sort are more susceptible of artificial change than a highly individualized physiognomy like Coquelins, I do not know; but cer- tainly, no one who did not know Got pretty well would ever recognize him as Bernard in Les Fourchambault, or the marquis de Bieux in Le due Job, after having seen him as Monsieur Poi- rier. In the same way, and to the same degree, de F& audys face is so totally different as Jean in Le duc Job, from what it is as Praberneau in Le Klephte, or the old butler in Tune famille, that you have difficulty in be- lieving him to be the same man in these three parts. Got is the most genial of actors as well as one of the most versa- tile; there are few lines of comedy in which he does not exceL To be sure, he made a resounding failure in Tar- tuffe last winter, but it is exceedingly rare to see him do a part otherwise than to perfection. His Monsieur Poirier is simply ideal; his breakfast scene with de F6raudy, in L6on Layas Due Job, is the bright spot in that otherwise dull play. Of all the famous actors at the Fran- qais, the one I was most disappointed in is Mounet-Sully; I can to a certain ex- tent understand his immense popular- ity, for the hold an actor has upon the public is often quite as much owing to his personality as to the quality of his art. The great popularity of the late John McCullough, for instance, was cer- tainly not wholly due to his acting. Mounet-Sully has at moments an air of infantine innocence and purity that is, especially to the French, very winning and hard to resist. Perhaps I should say nothing about him, for I only saw him once, and I hear that he is liable to have his bad nights now and thenper- haps I did not see him at his best. But I saw him in one of his favorite parts, Buy Bias, and I must say that I was sorely disappointed in him. I am not so unreasonable as to expect any actor to make Victor Hugos Buy Bias seem otherwise than preposterous; but I did expect Mounet-Sully to make the part at least theatrically strong and effective. I was prepared for his having a good deal of ronron and panache, * and was ready to like him all the better for it, for most of the actors at the Fran9ais read alexandrines far too much like prose for my personal tasteif I had lived in Adrienne Lecouvreurs day, I know I should have preferred Mademoi- selle Duclosand Victor Hugo, without a pretty big panache, is unimaginable nonsense from a stage point of view. But Mounet-Sully struck me as not only terribly self-conscious, but weak and in- effective. His delivery is, in general, of the most wholesale sort, and he seldom attempts to what the French call d~taii- ler a speech, to indicate the finer and * The French call ronron, or purring, what we call sing-song; pcvnache (plume, or, as the Germans would say, Federbusch) is the common term in theatrical lingo for that touch of e~aggeratiou in sctiug which is neces- sary for brilliancy of effect; it is not quite synonymous with overacting, but it tends in that direction. PARIS THEATRES AND CONCERTS. 21 subtler shades of emotion, and, as it were, squeeze every drop of meaning out of a sentence, by means of variety of vocal inflection and frequent changes of speed. Passionate speeches, in par- ticular, he launches forth in one unvary- ing torrent. But then, as I have said, it may not have been one of his good nights; also, he may have felt the influ- ence of the rest of the performance, which, except for Baillets Don (i1~sar de Bazan, was pretty poor. Mine Broisat is by no means up to acting the Queen, and Dupont-Vernons Don Satluste was absolutely wretched. Mounet-Sully has an able follower and understudy in Albert Lambert fils, who indeed has already succeeded him in some of his parts among them, Saint-M~grin, in the elder Dumas s Henri III et sa cour. It is curious, by the way, to see how a Tuesday audi- ence at the Franqais (the most culti- vated audience in all France) now take this astonishing old play. For one thing, they certainly do not take it seriously; but they none the less follow it with great attentiveness, and are evidently fond of it. In fact, Henri III et sa cour is a sort of long-stand- ing habit with them; they have been brought up on it, and it was probably the first play that most of them ever saw at the Franqais. Accordingly they like it, and go to see it again and again, mainly for old acquaintances sake, just as one of us might now and then, of his own free will, go to see Colmans hon Chest. The way in which it was given at the Franqais last winter was as near perfection as anything I ever saw on the stage; from Wormss Henri III, and Febvres duo de Guise, to Mile Dud- lays duchesse de Guise, Mine Piersons Catherine de JiiThdicis, and Lamberts Saint -3ifl grin, everything was simply masterly. Albert Lambert seems to be one of those actors to whom a costume is a necessity; he is on& of the four younger members of the company (de F6raudy, Le Bargy, Jean Coquelin, and himself) who seem to have the most brilliant future before them, but his field is exclusively tragedy and the romantic drama. In modern society comedy he is painfully bad; he must have his doublet and hose; a frock-coat undoes him quite, as all old Delaunays sacred fire is said to have been quenched outright by a pair of trousers. Of the older men, Worms and Febvre stand well up in the first rank. Dis- similar as they are in person, they are much alike in the exquisite perfection of their art. I have been told that both are very versatile, and can well imagine either of them acting almost anything; except that I cannot quite picture to myself Worms doing anything very fiery, nor Febvre being very funny. Worms I have only seen in Henri III; but I saw Febvre in two utterly unlike parts: the duc do Guise in Henri III et sa cour, and Jacques de Tivre in Jules Lemaitres Manage blanc. In both of these parts he was perfection it- self. I only wish that I could say some- thing about this, in some ways, very remarkable play of Lemaitres, but the subject quite foils my ingenuity. As was the case with almost all the new plays brought out in Paris during the sea- son of 189091, a mere sketch of the plot of Mariage blanc is beyond the possibilities of English print. One point, however, I can mention: the wonderful acting of the part of Siinone, the consumptive young bride (or no- bride, if you prefer), by Mlle Reichen- berg.* Except for versatility, this extraor- dinary actress may be said to stand among the women of the Com~die- Franqaise as Coquein ain6 does among the men. Her range is extremely limited; she only acts ingenue parts; but within this range, for absolute, un- surpassable, despair - inspiring perfec- tion, she seeks her fellow. Her dic- tion (elocution) is famous from one end of France to the other; she is the inimitable model of French speech, whether in prose or verse. True, she is nothing but an ingenue, but then such an ing~nue! Lemaitre, I believe, wrote the part of Simone especially for her; had he written it for anyone else, one might be pardoned for thinking that he had rather overdone matters, for his Simones artlessness soars to a dizzy height of greeuness, such as * And not Eleichemberg. as it is often spelt In Paris even on the printed official list of 800i6tcl4rea andpenrion- naires of the Oom~die-Fran9aise. 22 PARIS THEATRES AND CONCERTS. only a rather corrupt - minded Gaul could either imagine or take delight in. But Mile Reichenberg triumphs over this, as over all other difficulties; see her in the part, and it all seems the purest poetry for the time being. Any- thing more exquisite than her telling her sister .Miarthe (or rather not telling her) about her husbands kiss, I never saw on the stage. And Febvre, as the husband! What a fine finish that rough-looking, bull-necked man, whose exterior is suggestive of nothing but strength, knows how to put upon his art! With what natural-seeming ease and grace he expresses all the juice from a sentence. Another very solid actor is Sylvain, who is particularly noted for his diction, most particularly of all for the perfec- tion of his reading of poetry, either in alexandrines or in vers libres. He is a versatile actor, but his favorite field is classic tragedy. The Com6die-Fran- 9aise is rather better off, upon the whole, for male than for female trage- dians; for the last half century, or so, it has had pretty persistent ill-luck with its trag~diennes. Rachel ran away, and then died young; Descl6e died; Mile Agar, the most brilliant d6butante since Rachel, could not, or would not, stay in the company, but frittered away her ex- ceptional talents in all sorts of curious professional escapades, until she went virtually to pieces in minor theatres. Sarah Bernhardt ran away. Perhaps there is something unsettled and recal- citrant against a monotonous life inher- ent in the tragic temperament. It is true, however, on the other hand, that the Com6die-Fran9aise does not hold out overwhelmingly brilliant induce- ments to actors or actresses whose specialty is the classic repertory, either tragic or comic, and the romantic drama of 1830. The house is in honor bound to give a certain amount of Racine, Corucille, Molibre, and Regnard every season, and must see to it besides that Victor Hugo and his followers are not quite neglected; but it is not the plays of these older writers by which the house lives financially. The plays that make money for the house are the mod- ern society comedies, or else things like Sardous Thermidor; and it is the actors who act these plays that are fi- nancially the most valuable to the house, and to keep whom in the company the greatest pains are taken. Now, the greatest inducement the Com6die-Fran- ~aise can hold out to any actor is to pro- mote him, or her, from the pensionnat to the soci~tariat. It has been noticed more than once of late years, and with a good deal of heart-burning in certain quarters, that young trag~diennes and repertory comedians had a way, not per- haps of quite growing gray, but of reach- ing to a very respectable maturity as rensionnaires, while much younger and less experienced actresses of society comedy would be elected soci~taires over their heads. Indeed, one cannot long remain blind to the fact that Racine and Corneille are no longer really popular in France, and that even MolThre, of and by himself, cannot draw crowded houses except on special occasions, like auni- versaries. No doubt there is a certain class who still make it a point to go to the classic repertory with tolerable regularity, and who thoroughly enjoy it; but this class is not very large. Racine and Corneille have exceedingly little of that genuine and general popu- larity in France that Shakespeare has with us; they appeal more to connais- seurs. The only trag& lienne of real distinc- tion the Com6die-Fran9aise now has, is Mlle Dullay. She has, by persever- ance and unintermittent hard study, gradually worked her way up to the top; she is not a genius, like Rachel or Sarah Bernhardt; her talent has neither the tiger spring, nor the lighting flash; but a more thoroughly satisfying actress I have seen nowhere. One does not, by the way, often have a chance of seeing her, for her position at the Fran9ais amounts to little more than a sinecure, and she appears only about half a dozen times in a season. I only saw her as the duehesse de tluise in Henry III et sa cour, but I shall never forget her great love-scene with Saint-lliThgrin. I do not think that anything I ever saw Sarah Bernhardt do impressed me so strongly. The most popular actress at the Fran- ~ais to - day is probably Mine Bartet. Unlike Mlle Dudlay, she is almost con- tinually before the public, and acts PARIS THEA TRES AND CONCER TS. 23 oftener in a single month than Mile Dudlay does in a whole season. Her repertory is ver~ large; last winter I saw her as Camille in de Mussets On ne badine pas avec 1amoiir; as lilme de Renal in Paillerons lEtincelle; as Mime de Moranc~ in the younger Du- mass line visite de noces; as the young wife (I forget her name) in Hen- ry Lavedans 1.Jne famille ; and in the title - r~1e of Armand Silvestre and Eugl~ne Morands Gris6lidis. In all these parts it is impossible not to recog- nize the fineness of Mine Bartets art; only I must confess that, upon the whole, I find her a little tame. She has not quite the force of Mile Beichen- berg, and when it comes to the crucial moments in a part, such as the famous Elle est morte. Adieu, Perdican! in On ne badine pas, she does not strike quite hard enough a blow. I liked her best in Gris~lidis, a part of almost infinite tenuity you see the stars twinklin~ through itbut, with all its artificiality, full of a certain quasi-poetic imaginativeness. But, upon the whole, I must own to preferring Mine Barretta whom I saw, by the way, only as the step-daughter in line famille, and as Adrienne in li~t6 de Ia Saint-Mar- tin who seems to me to have all Mine Bartets art, but with somewhat a sharper edge to it. Of the younger men, de F6raudy and Le Bargy may be said already to have made their mark fully. I have already spoken of de F~raudys power of disguising his face; his versatility in style is equally remarkable. I know of few men who can act three such utterly different parts as Jean in Le duc Job, Praberneau in Le Klephte, and the old butler in line famille, equally well, and strike so characteristic a note in each one of them. Not far behind him, however, comes Le Bargy; he has not quite de F& audys force, and noth- ing of his versatility, but in his own line he is perfection itself. His favorite character is the elegant young man of fashion; he is superb in such parts as the young husband in line famille, Raoul in lEtincelle, and de (i!ygneroi in line visite de noces. He is eleg- ance personified on the stage. It will be seen that I have not at- tempted to give any complete account of the Com6die-Fran9aise; I have mere- ly dwelt upon points which interested me, and spoken of actors and actresses that struck me as remarkable. But one thing remains still for me to say: no matter how wonderful this or that act- or or actress may be, neither he nor she is nearly as wonderful as the com- pany, as the ensemble with which some plays are given. I have no doubt that things are not now at the Th6atre-Fran- ~ais quite what they were in the consul- ship of Plancus; I have seen some pretty poor performances there, and certainly one downright bad one. But when things do go aright, they go very right indeed. Such performances as I saw last winter of Henri III et sa cour and of Manage blanc, are epoch-making in the life of a theatre- goer; that utter perfection all through is characteristic of the Fran9ais at its best, and, as far as my experience goes, can be found carried to such a pitch no- where else. Before closing my inkstand, I must say at least something about the sister establishment to the Com6die-Fran9aise, the Od6on, which has for many years borne the official title of Second Th6ii- tre - Fran~ais, to which Parisians are fond of adding: et premier de l~tran- ger. It will be remembered that, when Talma and his faction seceded from the Th6~tre de la Nation in the faubourg Saint-Germain, in 1791, what remained of the original Com6die-Fran9aise stayed on at the old house, until it was closed by order of the O6mit6 du Salut-Public in 1793; and that the house was opened again as the Th6~tre de l~galit6 next year, ouly to be closed once more in 1795. Then began the four years of wandering life for this half of the Com6- die-Fran9aise, which ended in its re- uniting with the Talma faction at the present Th~tre-Fran9ais in 1799. The house in the faubourg Saint-Germain had remained closed most of this time. But on May 20, 1797, it was opened again, as the Th6iitre de lOd6on, by a company led by Poupart-Dorfenille, a school of acting being attached to the theatre. In 1799 the house was burnt 24 PARIS THEATRES AND CONCERTS. to the ground (March 18th), and the the ever-growing fashionableness of the Goni& liens de lOd*~on opened two days theatres on the other side of the Seine, later at the Salle-Louvois, in the rue until, in 1832, the whole company left it Louvois, opposite the west side of the in a body for the Th6~itre de la Porte- Th6~tre de la Rue de la Lob But it Saint-Martin on the boulevards. seemed fated that almost every company Here was total wreck! One of the finest whose proper home was the Od6on theatres in Parisand a government should, sooner or later, take to nom- theatre, at thatlying fallow for lack adism; the Com~diens de lOdi~on, burnt of a company and an audience. Before out of their own theatre, soon began to the year was out, it was determined lead a more checkered existence even that several of the other theatres in the than their predecessors of the Com6die- capital should give extra performances Fran~aise had done. It was not long be- at the Od6on, in rotation. On Septem- fore they crossed the rue Louvois to ber 15 this plan was carried into give some performances at the Th6?ttre effect, the Com6die-Fran9aise giving de la Rue de la Loi (called at that time two performances a week, besides play- Th6htre de la R6publique et des Arts), ing every night at its own house in alternating with the Op6ra; and during the Palais-RoyaL This state of affairs April, May, and June we find them continued for a little while; but the skipping about Paris, performing, some- other theatres soon tired of giving these times for only a single night, at the Th6- extra performances, and one after an- ~tre-Favart, the Th6fitre du Marais in other dropped out of the scheme. In the rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, the 1834 the only one left, besides the Coin- Th6~tre de la Cit6-Yari6t6s, * and again 6die-Fran9aise, was the Op6ra-Comique; at the Th6~tre-Louvois. When the last- toward the end of 1837 even it gave up named house was rechristened Th6fttre the enterprise, and the Com6die was de lImp6ratrice, in July, 1804, the com- left to run the Od6on alone. Finally a pany, which had remained there since separate company was formed for the 1801, were allowed to assume the title Od4on, and it was opened as the reor- of Com~diens ordinaires de lEmpereur. ganized Second Th6~tre-Fran~ais on Oc- Not long after this the Od6on itself was tober 28, 1841. rebuilt, and the company returned thith- This title describes the theatre very er in 1808, opening it on June 15 as the well; the repertory of the Od6on is of Th& Thre de Sa Majest6 lImp6ratrice et tIre same character as that of the Com6- Reine. But ten years later the house die-Fran9aise across the river, but in was again destroyed by fire, on a Good the management of the theatre a far Friday, and the troupe had once more to greater elasticity is noticeable. At the go elsewhere, this time to the Th6iltre- Od6on tradition is less imperious than Favart, where it gave performances on at the Fran~ais, and is more frequently the 6ff-nights of the Italian Opera. In disregarded ; it is a noteworthy place for 1819 the Od~on was rebuilt for the trying experiments, bringing out new third time and the company saw itself plays, and taking old ones from a new again within its own walls on Septem- artistic point of view. And as plays are ber 30. It was in this year that the generally mounted there with a less pune- house was given the official title of tilious thoroughness of rehearsal than at Second Th6~tre-Fran9ais. The finan- the Fran9ais, these experiments waste cial prosperity of the house, however, less time and money, and are not to be had been at no time great, and now be- regretted even when they turn out to gan to go from small to less. For thir- be failures. Its company is made up teen years this Second Th6atre- largely of young material. Many an Fran9ais fought against adversity and actor at the Fran9ais has passed through This theatre, in the cite, opposite the mal the Od6on before being accepted as the Palais de Justice, was opex~ed ~ pensionnaire at the first theatre, and After a somewhat impecunious career, it was changed not a few of the actors at the Od6on Into a public dance-hall in 1846, famous as the Prado until 1855, when it was pulled down and superseded by feel, in their heart of heart, that their the closerie des Lilas (Bullier), near the Jardin dii admission to the Fran9ais will be mainly Luxembourg. The site of the Cit& Vari6t6s is now oc cupied by the Tribunal de Commerce. a matter of time. For instance, an ac SONG. 25 cident to Mile Dudlay might easily re- sult in the Oomc~die-Fran9aise snapping up Mile Antonia Laurent, the admirable young trag~dienne of the Od6on. The troupe, too, is not so close a corporation as that of the Fran9ais; at the house in the faubourg Saint-Germain an actor or actress may be especially engaged for a single part in a new play, the engage- ment to last only during the run of the play. In this way one of the most orig- inal and talented actresses in Paris, Mile R6jane, was engaged last winter for the part of Germaine in de Porto- iRiches Amoureuse. It was, artistical- ly speaking, quite a fall upstairs for Mile R6jane, who had just been acting with enormous success at the Yari6t6s in Ma cousine, a broadish farce-comedy of a far lower type than anything that is given at the Od6on. There is prob- ably no single person in the theatrical world of Paris upon whom so much interest is centred as Mile R6jane. By many she is looked upon as the coming actress of modern drama; it is even prophesied that the doors of the Fran- 9ais itself will fly open to her before very long. I certainly should not be sur- prised at it. She has indubitably a streak of genius in her composition; she has temperament and immense nervous energy. Her acting is brilliancy itself, and she has, moreover, what they call in Paris nowadays an eminently modern talent; in other words, she is a good deal of a naturaliste. She ought to go far, with that inborn magnetic power of hers. Perhaps it will all depend upon her having the stability of character ne- cessary to make her stick to hard work. But, one way or another, she seems pretty surely one who is destined to be famous. SONG. By Duncan Campbell Scott. HERES the last rose, And the end of June, With the tulips gone And the lilacs strewn; A light wind blows From the golden west, The bird is charmed To her secret nest: Heres the last rose In the violet sky A great star shines, The gnats are drawn To the purple pines; On the magic lawn A shadow flows From the summer moon: Heres the last rose, And the end of the tune.

SONG. 25 cident to Mile Dudlay might easily re- sult in the Oomc~die-Fran9aise snapping up Mile Antonia Laurent, the admirable young trag~dienne of the Od6on. The troupe, too, is not so close a corporation as that of the Fran9ais; at the house in the faubourg Saint-Germain an actor or actress may be especially engaged for a single part in a new play, the engage- ment to last only during the run of the play. In this way one of the most orig- inal and talented actresses in Paris, Mile R6jane, was engaged last winter for the part of Germaine in de Porto- iRiches Amoureuse. It was, artistical- ly speaking, quite a fall upstairs for Mile R6jane, who had just been acting with enormous success at the Yari6t6s in Ma cousine, a broadish farce-comedy of a far lower type than anything that is given at the Od6on. There is prob- ably no single person in the theatrical world of Paris upon whom so much interest is centred as Mile R6jane. By many she is looked upon as the coming actress of modern drama; it is even prophesied that the doors of the Fran- 9ais itself will fly open to her before very long. I certainly should not be sur- prised at it. She has indubitably a streak of genius in her composition; she has temperament and immense nervous energy. Her acting is brilliancy itself, and she has, moreover, what they call in Paris nowadays an eminently modern talent; in other words, she is a good deal of a naturaliste. She ought to go far, with that inborn magnetic power of hers. Perhaps it will all depend upon her having the stability of character ne- cessary to make her stick to hard work. But, one way or another, she seems pretty surely one who is destined to be famous. SONG. By Duncan Campbell Scott. HERES the last rose, And the end of June, With the tulips gone And the lilacs strewn; A light wind blows From the golden west, The bird is charmed To her secret nest: Heres the last rose In the violet sky A great star shines, The gnats are drawn To the purple pines; On the magic lawn A shadow flows From the summer moon: Heres the last rose, And the end of the tune. By Frederick Smyth. THE criminal law, and the methods in which it is administered, are subjected to frequent criticisms, some of which are, no doubt, just, but many of which are founded on a lack of knowledge as to the facts. I have often wished that some of the critics might serve for a few terms as jurors in our criminal courts, and they would find that the evils of which they com- plain are less numerous and less serious than they had believed. It is often said, for instance, that the criminal law is harsh; yet, as I have at times said to the petit jurors serving be- fore me, the law provides safeguards which at every step tend to preserve the innocent from any wrong, and to aid accused men to maintain their inno- cence. A person accused of crime is en- titled, under the law, to an immediate examination into the facts; his accuser must immediately be brought before him, and the committing magistrate must promptly hold an examination, so that if the accusation is plainly false, or the accused man can establish his de- fence, he may be released without fur- ther annoyance. If the committing magistrate decides that there is prob- able cause to believe that the accused man has committed the crime with which he is charged, the Grand Jury, consisting of intelligent and fair-mind- ed men, examines the case with care, and unless the accusation appears well founded the proceedings are dismissed. After the Grand Jury has formulated the charge, and the accused man is ar- raigned at the bar, if he chooses to stand mute a plea of not guilty~~ is entered on his behalf; if he is poor, counsel is assigned to defend him; if he is friendless and has no one to sub- pcuna witnesses on his behalf, he may give the names of his witnesses to the District Attorney, and the whole power of the County and of the Court is at his disposal to enforce the attendance of any one who can testify for him. The presumption of innocence which attaches to a man at the moment of the accu- sation follows him through every step of the proceedings. The presumption may, at times, be violent, as when the ac- cused man is seen in the very commis- sion of the crime; but if for any reason the evidence against him cannot be prop- erly and fully presented in Court, this presumption prevents his conviction of any offence. He may, if he chooses, take the witness - staud and testify on his own behalf; if he chooses not to testify, the fact of his silence cannot be commented upon by the prosecuting attorney, and cannot be taken by a jury as weighing against him. He is tried by a jury of his peers, and if only a sin- gle one of the jurors sees in the evidence presented sufficient reason for his ac- quittal, he cannot be convicted. He is entitled to the benefit of a reasonable doubt, which follows him at every stage of the case, and the accusation against him must be proved to a reasonable certainty. His character, unless he chooses to put it in issue, is supposed to be good, and the jury must so regard it. If the judge is led into any error as to the admission or exclusion of evi- dence, or in his charge to the jury, and such error can be considered as inju- rious to the accused man, the appellate tribunals may be called upon to pass upon the fairness of the judges rulings. So that, instead of being harsh in its ap- plication, the criminal law is extremely careful lest an accused man shall be in- CRIME AND THE LAW.

By Frederick Smyth. THE criminal law, and the methods in which it is administered, are subjected to frequent criticisms, some of which are, no doubt, just, but many of which are founded on a lack of knowledge as to the facts. I have often wished that some of the critics might serve for a few terms as jurors in our criminal courts, and they would find that the evils of which they com- plain are less numerous and less serious than they had believed. It is often said, for instance, that the criminal law is harsh; yet, as I have at times said to the petit jurors serving be- fore me, the law provides safeguards which at every step tend to preserve the innocent from any wrong, and to aid accused men to maintain their inno- cence. A person accused of crime is en- titled, under the law, to an immediate examination into the facts; his accuser must immediately be brought before him, and the committing magistrate must promptly hold an examination, so that if the accusation is plainly false, or the accused man can establish his de- fence, he may be released without fur- ther annoyance. If the committing magistrate decides that there is prob- able cause to believe that the accused man has committed the crime with which he is charged, the Grand Jury, consisting of intelligent and fair-mind- ed men, examines the case with care, and unless the accusation appears well founded the proceedings are dismissed. After the Grand Jury has formulated the charge, and the accused man is ar- raigned at the bar, if he chooses to stand mute a plea of not guilty~~ is entered on his behalf; if he is poor, counsel is assigned to defend him; if he is friendless and has no one to sub- pcuna witnesses on his behalf, he may give the names of his witnesses to the District Attorney, and the whole power of the County and of the Court is at his disposal to enforce the attendance of any one who can testify for him. The presumption of innocence which attaches to a man at the moment of the accu- sation follows him through every step of the proceedings. The presumption may, at times, be violent, as when the ac- cused man is seen in the very commis- sion of the crime; but if for any reason the evidence against him cannot be prop- erly and fully presented in Court, this presumption prevents his conviction of any offence. He may, if he chooses, take the witness - staud and testify on his own behalf; if he chooses not to testify, the fact of his silence cannot be commented upon by the prosecuting attorney, and cannot be taken by a jury as weighing against him. He is tried by a jury of his peers, and if only a sin- gle one of the jurors sees in the evidence presented sufficient reason for his ac- quittal, he cannot be convicted. He is entitled to the benefit of a reasonable doubt, which follows him at every stage of the case, and the accusation against him must be proved to a reasonable certainty. His character, unless he chooses to put it in issue, is supposed to be good, and the jury must so regard it. If the judge is led into any error as to the admission or exclusion of evi- dence, or in his charge to the jury, and such error can be considered as inju- rious to the accused man, the appellate tribunals may be called upon to pass upon the fairness of the judges rulings. So that, instead of being harsh in its ap- plication, the criminal law is extremely careful lest an accused man shall be in- CRIME AND THE LAW. jured by any failure to effectively prove the charge against him. If there is any discrimination, it is against the commu- nity, whom the law should protect, and not against the individual accused of crime. Again, it is said that the application of the criminal law to individual cases by the judges who pass sentence is sometimes unduly severe. Sentimental persons will bewail the fate of a crimi- nal sentenced to a long term of impris- onment. If a thief on the street snatches from the hand of a poor woman a purse containing a small sum of money, and he is convicted of a serious charge, his friends flock to his support, and besiege the judge with applications for mercy; his wife and numerous small children, including at times a borrowed infant, seek to affect the heart of the judge and turn him from a proper consider- ation of his duty. I have, at times, my- self been accused of heartlessness, be- cause in spite of numerous appeals I have felt it my duty to inflict severe punishment upon criminals. I do not lack sympathy. But, my sympathy goes out rather toward the innocent person against whom the wrong is done, than toward the person by whom it is com- mitted. The woman from whom a purse is snatched loses, perhaps, all the small sum of money which she has for her immediate support; she may be on the way to purchase the necessary articles to sustain her family; she may have gathered, with economy and care, a small sum to provide for her monthly rent, and while in the public street, and trusting to the safety which the com- munity promises to her, while she is in the innocent pursuit of her daily duties, she is robbed of all that she possess- es, and compelled to undergo suffering and deprivation. My sympathies go out toward her rather than toward the criminal who has intentioully violated the laws, openly committed a crime of violence, and who is too much of a coward to attack a man of his own size and strength. If sympathy has its place, even in the administration of the crimi- nal law, it would be well to see that the sympathy is directed toward the right quarter. Some complain also that the criminal 27 law is unevenly administered. An in- telligent young man, connected with one of the daily newspapers, once asked me to explain to him why in two cases which I had just disposed of, and in which the accusations were almost identical, I had sentenced one defendant to two years in the Penitentiary, and an- other to more than four years in the State Prison. I explained to him that in one ease the accused man had never before been guilty of any serious crime; that his employers and others had con- vinced me that he had been industrious and honest for many years, and his crime appeared to be one of impulse largely, and I felt sure that the smallest possible punishment would be sufficient to convince him that a life of crime was much harder and less profitable than a life of honest work. The other crim- inal was one who had at other times been convicted of crime, whose com- panions were notoriously bad, and on whom reforming influences had here- tofore had no effect. His punishment must be severe in order to teach him to fear the hand of the law, and to refrain from further violations of it. The young gentleman was perfectly satisfied with my explanation, and saw the jus- tice of the discrimination used. While the judges, like other men, do make mistakes, my acquaintance with those who have presided in criminal courts has convinced me that they are, as a rule, earnest and conscientious in their endeavors to fix a punishment which is most just in the particular case under consideration. Many sentences imposed upon criminals have followed restless nights in which the judge was considering the different arguments for and against leniency, and frequently he has consulted with other experienced officials to the end that no unfairness toward the community or the criminal should result. There are some particulars in which I have wished that the Legislature might amend the laws under which criminals are punished in New York State. The Legislature, in many cases, has fixed a minimum and a maximum punishment for a particular crime; but there are cases in which I have thought that the minimum might well be reduced, and a CRIME AND THE LAW. 28 CRIME AND THE LAW. larger discretion given to the judge. If a man steals $24 in money he can- not be more severely punished than by a years imprisonment, and a fine; but if he steals $26 in money, while the circumstances may not be more aggra- vated than in the other case, he cannot receive less than two years imprison- ment. There is, of course, little or no moral difference between stealing a sum over $25, or under that amount, and while a distinction founded on the amount stolen may in some cases be fair, yet it would seem that the mini- mum punishment for the greater crime and the maximum for the lesser one should more nearly approach. There are frequently circumstances in which a crime comes within the technical definition of a robbery or burglary of the first degree, and yet there are cir- cumstances surrounding the case which would make a punishment less than the minimum now provided equitable. This is especially true of first offenders. I have frequently recommended that the minimum punishment for many offences be reduced. A strange omission, which is greatly to be regretted, is that the law provides, in New York City at least, no method by which young women accused of a first crime can be sent to a reforming insti- tution instead of to the Penitentiary. As to men, the law allows a convicted person between the ages of sixteen and thirty to be sent either to a Reforma- tory, State Prison, or in some cases to the Penitentiary, so that the punish- ment may be more or less severe, ac- cording to the character of the offen- der. Only one place of restraint is now provided for women, and whether the proven charge is that of murder in the second degree, or the larceny of a small amount, the woman must be sent to the Penitentiary. It is often with the greatest reluctance that J am compelled to send a young woman, who may have been brought up honestly and in a vir- tuous home, and who has only been led astray by a sudden impulse to com- mit some act of dishonesty, to a prison, where she must have as associates the vilest and the most hardened of her sex.. I have approved of, and aided in, every movement toward establishing a re formatory for women, somewhat similar to that useful institution the Elmira Reformatory for young men, but thus far without success. I sincerely hope that the State may soon be relieved from the shame of this omission in its crimi- nal statutes. The law might also well be changed in the interest of first offenders. The Courts have sometimes exercised the inherent privilege of postponing sen- tence and discharging the offender when it is evident that the boy or young man accused of his first offence may be saved from a criminal career by the care of his relatives and friends. It might be well, however, if a system somewhat similar to that which I am informed has been recently adopted in France, were incor- porated in our statutes, so that a judge might, in the case of a first offender, ac- cused of a crime of a minor degree, release him without sentence, but with the proviso that if he again, within five years of his first conviction, were guilty of a criminal act, he should be punished for his first offence; but if for five years he lived an honest and industrious life, the State should pardon the first viola- tion of its criminal laws, and he should be relieved from further responsibility therefor. In the case of offenders con- victed for a second or third time, the pun- ishment should be rendered severe, and the judges might well be allowed the discretion which now rests with the prosecuting attorney and the jury, of inflicting a double punishment upon those who had been guilty of repeated violations of the criminal law. Chief Inspector Byrnes, to whose skill and intelligence the city of New York owes much of its safety from the dep- redations of professional thieves, in an article in the North American Review, attributes much of the crime in the city to the influences surrounding the cheap lodging-houses, where many crimes of a serious nature are planned. The earlier steps in crime, however, are, in my ex- perience, largely due to the overcrowd- ing of the population in narrow and unhealthful quarters. Boys are almost compelled to seek the streets as a place of recreation after their daily work, and gather upon the nearest street-corners, and, influenced by older and more hard- CRIME AND THE LAW. 29 ened companions, they readily form themselves into associations or gangs, which sometimes degenerate into con- spiracies for committing crime. They have only uncomfortable or squalid homes, sometimes occupied by drunken parents, and it is not unnatural that they should seek elsewhere means of diversion, and should be unconsciously led into committing the smaller offences with which a criminal life usually begins. Any change in the housing of the poorer classes by which homes can be made more attractive and healthful would certainly have an influence in lessening crime. A great influence toward lessening the number of professional criminals is found in the reforming institutions for young men. The Elmira Reformatory, to which male criminals between the ages of sixteen and thirty years may be sent, has done an especially useful work in this direction. The statistics show that of those who are committed to this institution a large proportion do not return to criminal careers. They are taught a trade, if they do not already know one, and the habits of industry and study which they there acquire often influence their future lives. The judges are always ready, in proper cases, to send young men who have not previously been guilty of a serious of- fence to this institution. The law was at one time so worded that if a young man had been convicted of a misde- meanor merely, he could not, on any subsequent conviction of a felony, be sent to the Reformatory. I, however, urged, and the Legislature has enacted, a change, by which a young man may have the benefit of this institution if he has not previously been convicted of a felony. Under the rule which excluded those who had previously been convicted of misdemeanors, a boy who bad been arrested for a disturbance of the public peace by playing ball in the streets, or for some similar act, could not be sent, on his conviction of a felony, to the Re- formatory, but must instead be sent to the Penitentiary or the State Prison. The law, as it at present stands, is much more useful, and gives a wider discre- tion to the Judge in reference to the commitment of young men to this ex- cellent institution. A very large proportion of the crimi- nal offences brought to the notice of the Courts consists of those committed by boys, or young men under the age of twenty-five years. In many cases the crimes are the result of the influence of elder criminals, or are committed with- out a realization of the great wrong- fulness of the act. Sometimes, how- ever, the criminal instinct is strong in even immature youths. A boy of fif- teen years of age, who was brought be- fore me a few years ago, was convicted of a high degree of robbery, and it ap- peared that in other cases he had been guilty of similar offences, but on ac- count of his extreme youth had escaped punishment. He took part with older men in assaulting citizens on the street and taking property from their persons. The managers of the House of Refuge, to which institution I committed the boy, refused to receive him, because of his previous crimes and the bad influ- ence which he exerted upon other in- mates. I was unwilling to send him either to the Penitentiary or the State Prison on account of his youth, and be- cause I felt certain that association with older criminals would only render him more hardened in his vicious career. He was detained in the city prison for many months and finally discharged. Other instances of the early depravity of members of the criminal class have come to my attention. The fact that so many crimes are committed by persons of immature years, however sad it may be, proves that, to some extent at least, the penal- ties of the criminal law are effective in preventing crime. Young men who have had their first experience in a reforming or penal institution either learn caution, and do not again expose themselves to conviction of serious of- fences, or become convinced that honest employment at some laborious occupa- tion is, after all, more profitable than the criminal career, with its liability of detection and severe punishment. Some, of course, of the young offenders continue their lives of crime and become professional criminals. The number of professional criminals is, however, small- er than is ordinarily supposed, and in New York City, at least, the police, and 80 CRIME AND THE LAW. especially the detective force, are able to preserve the community from most of their attempted depredations. Men who belong to the professional criminal class are closely watched; every action is noted and reported at head-quarters; they are prohibited from approaching the banking district; when any suspi- cious movements on their part are no- ticed a closer watch is maintained, and most of them are soon driven from the city and compelled to seek abodes in other lands or other portions of this country. While the present system of punishment may have occasional defects it has certainly resulted in minimizing the evils to which society is exposed from the criminal offences of some mem- bers of the community. In spite of the fact that New York is the point of attraction to criminals from other lands, and has, as all great cities have, a fascination for those who lead irregular lives, I am glad to be able to believe, from my experience, that serious crimes have not increased in proportion to the growth of population. The immi- grants who seek our shores are, as a rule, industrious and worthy; but among them are many who come from coun- tries where the laws are lax and where they have been accustomed to settle dis- putes by resort to violence. These usual- ly remain in this city instead of seeking homes in other parts of the country. Another constant addition to the criminal class is from those who have been attracted from other places by the comparative freedom from observation afforded by city life, and who, freed from the restraints of home, easily drift into lawless lives. The ranks of the crimi- nals are constantly recruited from these quarters. Yet the contest which society wages against criminals has not been unsuccessful. The younger members of the criminal class frequently reform, or find resistance to organized society so hopeless that they give up the fight. Between professional criminals and the forces of law and order the contest is never ended until the criminal dies or is imprisoned for life in a State Prison. The struggle on the part of the officials representing society is to repress the evil instincts of those who are found in the criminal ranks, or to nullify their most daring efforts. The struggle will con- tinue as long as society exists, and it is to be hoped that the victories will ever be more constant and decided on the side of those who seek for the peace and safety of the community. There has been some criticism of late in the discussions of lawyers as to the advisability of continuing the jury sys- tem. I wish at this time to express my belief that any change, at least affect- ing the jury system in criminal cases, would be unwise. I have found, in a long experience, that in a great major- ity of cases the decisions of juries as to the facts of a particular case have been just and wise. It has sometimes sur- prised me to see how men belonging to the business community, and unac- quainted with the intricacies of the law have made sharp distinctions between different grades of offences, and have brought in verdicts which conform ex- actly to the legal requirements of the cases. It has sometimes happened, per- haps, that jurors have been influenced by the particular facts of a case to ren- der a verdict which does not comply exactly with the legal definition of the crime proven, but in the vast majority of cases substantial justice has been done. I know of no other method which approaches in fairness toward the ac- cused, and in justice to the community at large, the decision by a jury of the facts in a criminal case. The judges cer- tainly do not seek added responsibility. It would be unfair and burdensome to them to require that they should pass not only upon the legal questions which arise but upon the facts. The twelve jurors can pay their sole attention to the facts, often intricate and complicated, and by a discussion and a comparison of views can justly weigh them. The jury system as it now exists is the result of centuries of experience, and I trust that it will always be maintained as one of the most effective safeguards against error or injustice in the administra- tion of the criminal law. A BALLADE OF DAWN. By Hugh McCulloch, Jr. Placida notte, e verecondo ragglo Della cadente luna. THE wan east quivers, and a chilling breeze Comes trembling oer the earth; the silence lies Oppressively on all things, and the trees Don ever-changing shapes while night-time dies. From off the river feathery mists arise And clothe the shivering earth in garments rare. Changed things, that seem like uncouth monsters, glare Where late the moonlight cast a charin~d glow. The stars grow faint, and fade into the air, And in the west the weary moon hangs low. To-night has been a night of nights; great seas Of tremulous moonlight, pouring from the skies Enchanted all the earth and made surcease Of restlessness, and stilled each vague surmise. Its beauty charmed away earths laboring sighs, And brought nepenthe for its sharp despair. Strange shadows hurried oer the meadows, where The wavering mist now billows to and fro. Alas, the night is gone that was so fair, And in the west the weary moon hangs low. And with the night has fled the golden ease That filled my heart beneath the myriad eyes Of midnight. Day is near, and beauty flees Before its naked squalor. Now the cries Of birds are heard, who know that in some wise Another day must yield the wonted share Of hard-earned food. And all the beasts prepare To fight for niggard gifts their lives bestow. Days murmurs stir them in their nightly lair, And in the west the weary moon hangs low. Yet this is but a symbol; everywhere Could man find peace, if his weak heart would dare To search; the very dawn is joyful, though Its breath seems chilled with day, and toil, and care, And in the west the weary moon hangs low.

A BALLADE OF DAWN. By Hugh McCulloch, Jr. Placida notte, e verecondo ragglo Della cadente luna. THE wan east quivers, and a chilling breeze Comes trembling oer the earth; the silence lies Oppressively on all things, and the trees Don ever-changing shapes while night-time dies. From off the river feathery mists arise And clothe the shivering earth in garments rare. Changed things, that seem like uncouth monsters, glare Where late the moonlight cast a charin~d glow. The stars grow faint, and fade into the air, And in the west the weary moon hangs low. To-night has been a night of nights; great seas Of tremulous moonlight, pouring from the skies Enchanted all the earth and made surcease Of restlessness, and stilled each vague surmise. Its beauty charmed away earths laboring sighs, And brought nepenthe for its sharp despair. Strange shadows hurried oer the meadows, where The wavering mist now billows to and fro. Alas, the night is gone that was so fair, And in the west the weary moon hangs low. And with the night has fled the golden ease That filled my heart beneath the myriad eyes Of midnight. Day is near, and beauty flees Before its naked squalor. Now the cries Of birds are heard, who know that in some wise Another day must yield the wonted share Of hard-earned food. And all the beasts prepare To fight for niggard gifts their lives bestow. Days murmurs stir them in their nightly lair, And in the west the weary moon hangs low. Yet this is but a symbol; everywhere Could man find peace, if his weak heart would dare To search; the very dawn is joyful, though Its breath seems chilled with day, and toil, and care, And in the west the weary moon hangs low. A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. By E. H. Blasbfield and E. W. Blashfield. I EACH one of our days in Egypt * was a delight in its ever fresh recur- rence of shining sun and shining river; and not least pleasant was the January morning of our first visit to Medinet Haboo. While breakfast was eaten in the cabin, Alee and Mahaeel packed the luncheon, and above stairs the side-saddles thumped upon the deck as Nafardy carried them to the felucca. When it came alongside cushions were thrown in, the travellers followed, and six blue-gowned figures burst into a chant as they bent to the oars, and the boat shot diagonally southwest against a stiff current. The sun was hot, but the dry air not unbracing, the water glittered, the wide sleeves of the sailors fluttered in the wind, the hum upon the Luxor bank lessened, the tall yards of the dahabee- yehs seemed to grow shorter, the tem- ple as it receded rose higher, taking its true place in the landscape, the white houses, the boats and steamers becom- ing so many dwarfs in presence of the columnar giants which marched in yel * See Afloat on the Nile, by the same authors, in Scnrauans MAeAZUIa for December, 1891. low procession against the sky, till palm- groves replaced houses and huts, dot- ting the east bank to the northward where Karnak raises its huge pilon. The Hathorites leaned back against the cushions in lazy satisfaction that for this one morning they were rid of their self-constituted attendant, Khalee- fa. Each day after breakfast that ven- erable donkey broker and vender of an- tiquities upon commission had lain in wait at the cabin door ahd asked of the sailors the destination of the Howagat. Karnak? Oh, then, he would go also, he wished to see a man there. Medinet Haboo? That was just the thing for him, he was absolute ruler at Medinet owned a house there, a camel, and a slave or two, and was almost a little scriptural king. Wherever the Hath- ors people were going, there his busi- ness and his pleasure called him, for had he not followed the big Howaga for several winters, and was the oppor- tunity of serving him to be neglected? The Socratic depression of his nose did not repel, the Socratic bulge of his fore- head indicated wise benevolence, and at first he was given entire credit. But donkeys of his provision were knife- backed or broken-winded, and were left behind by their fellows; operations in antiquitiessold by him at alleged bear market rateswere unsatisfactory when compared with purchases made through others, and it was pleasant to feel that he had not learned the days itinerary. Alas! what was that, squatting upon the very bow of the boatunwished-for figure-head to the felucca? Self-gratu- lation had been over early, there he was, looking eagerly at the western bank, where small black objects began to move along the waters edge keenly in- terested in the landing. Much has been written of the im- portunity of the donkey-boy, but the half has not been told, nor ever will be, of this impish bronze centaur. No con- dition of things where there is not in- tent to kill, wound, or even hurt could be so like a battle as a meeting between

A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. By E. H. Blasbfield and E. W. Blashfield. I EACH one of our days in Egypt * was a delight in its ever fresh recur- rence of shining sun and shining river; and not least pleasant was the January morning of our first visit to Medinet Haboo. While breakfast was eaten in the cabin, Alee and Mahaeel packed the luncheon, and above stairs the side-saddles thumped upon the deck as Nafardy carried them to the felucca. When it came alongside cushions were thrown in, the travellers followed, and six blue-gowned figures burst into a chant as they bent to the oars, and the boat shot diagonally southwest against a stiff current. The sun was hot, but the dry air not unbracing, the water glittered, the wide sleeves of the sailors fluttered in the wind, the hum upon the Luxor bank lessened, the tall yards of the dahabee- yehs seemed to grow shorter, the tem- ple as it receded rose higher, taking its true place in the landscape, the white houses, the boats and steamers becom- ing so many dwarfs in presence of the columnar giants which marched in yel * See Afloat on the Nile, by the same authors, in Scnrauans MAeAZUIa for December, 1891. low procession against the sky, till palm- groves replaced houses and huts, dot- ting the east bank to the northward where Karnak raises its huge pilon. The Hathorites leaned back against the cushions in lazy satisfaction that for this one morning they were rid of their self-constituted attendant, Khalee- fa. Each day after breakfast that ven- erable donkey broker and vender of an- tiquities upon commission had lain in wait at the cabin door ahd asked of the sailors the destination of the Howagat. Karnak? Oh, then, he would go also, he wished to see a man there. Medinet Haboo? That was just the thing for him, he was absolute ruler at Medinet owned a house there, a camel, and a slave or two, and was almost a little scriptural king. Wherever the Hath- ors people were going, there his busi- ness and his pleasure called him, for had he not followed the big Howaga for several winters, and was the oppor- tunity of serving him to be neglected? The Socratic depression of his nose did not repel, the Socratic bulge of his fore- head indicated wise benevolence, and at first he was given entire credit. But donkeys of his provision were knife- backed or broken-winded, and were left behind by their fellows; operations in antiquitiessold by him at alleged bear market rateswere unsatisfactory when compared with purchases made through others, and it was pleasant to feel that he had not learned the days itinerary. Alas! what was that, squatting upon the very bow of the boatunwished-for figure-head to the felucca? Self-gratu- lation had been over early, there he was, looking eagerly at the western bank, where small black objects began to move along the waters edge keenly in- terested in the landing. Much has been written of the im- portunity of the donkey-boy, but the half has not been told, nor ever will be, of this impish bronze centaur. No con- dition of things where there is not in- tent to kill, wound, or even hurt could be so like a battle as a meeting between VOL. XI.3 A /~. Li z Li I U I 2 C 2 a: 1- z 34 A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. urged out into the stream until their saddle - girths were wet. The imps, holding up their gowns in their teeth, showed more and more of copper body as they waded about the boat and thrust in dark slender paws, seizing guide-books, umbrellas, and baskets. Shallows stopped the felucca, which was fairly mobbed. Mabmoud, scoop- ing with his hands, threw as much of the Nile as he could upon the invad- ers, and Moorhany, losing his temper, brought down his oar with a tremendous splash, missing the boys and drench- ing the ladies with water, which, how- ever, the hot sun quickly dried. Mean- time the figure-head had slipped down from the felucca, and becoming a mer- man, Khaleefa, with an accomplice, seized the legs of the lightest Howaga, lifted him from the gunwale, opened him like a compass and deposited him as- tride a donkey, which driven deep into the water, had been predestined to him by this Arab Ulysses. donkey-boys and their possible prey. The mild-mannered man who in Cairo shakes his head at the use of the cudgel, before his second excursion gets him a stick, and crc he leaves Egypt wishes he were a very Robin Hood in proficiency at quarter-staff. The stick fell from heaven, says the Arab proverb; if so, it was up- on a community of quarrelsome donkey - boys, just as Zeus sent the storks to the frogs. Each boy means to get you, if not you, then a piece of you, which means your box, your guide-book, or um- brella. A half-dozen good donkeys had been ordered for the six members of the party. Eighteen or so of the animals were galloped to the waters edge, and many of them Study of Drapery on a Windy Day at Luxor. A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. 35 But the Howaga, who had been served so before. rode the donkey ashore and exchanged it for his own, to Khaleefas disgust. The other five travellers were carried through the shal- lows by the sailors, and the battle began. While Ne- fardy buckled on the side- saddles, the Howagat were bombarded with donkeys whose masters, intrenched behind them, shunted them at their victims who were bumped one against the other, the umbrellas jerking and swaying in the ladies hands. Donkeys trod upon them, they charged one wing which gave way, but were immediately enveloped upon the other side by~ donkey light cavalrymen, the latter skirmishing, slapping their high red saddles, screaming, You take it, my donkey, you donkey sick, werry bad, sit down soon! The tall sailors, Abderrachman and Urushwan, fended them off with poles, and the canary- colored gown of Mahacel, the Coptic waiter, streamed in pursuit of the lunch-bas- ket, which a guerilla donkey- boy, intent on porterage fees, had eloped with at a canter. Khaleefas benevo- lent forehead bulged as much as ever, but his soul was black, all his beasts had been re- fused. At last the saddles being fast and all the party mounted, except the sailors who would walk or run as might be, the party were off with a jingle and a shout at a sort of scuttling canter; the dozen supernumerary boys who had all become equestrian since their wares were out of the market, circled about the travellers like a Greek chorus, pre- dicting coming woe, chanting in unison dire prognostications that the beasts would become donkeys couchant, don- keys scant, that they were sick and worthless. So they galloped as far as the first Arab village, sitting their ani- mals as lightly with their naked brown limbs as the cavalrymen of the Pana thenaic frieze. With every donkey there ran a boy, and Khaleefa, upon one of the rejected, pounded along with the rest, for a day with the Howagat was always desirable to one who had much spare time. In the pouches of the sail- ors there was tobacco which could he levied upon, there would be the leav- ings of the occidental lunchunclean food, reconcilable, however, to a philo- sophic Moslem who consorted much with Franks ; then there were hypothet- ical empty bottles and sardine boxes, crumbs of all sorts from Dives table so Khaleefa rode and Rayah ran, until the plump little body of the latter tiring the brown legs, the rider took before him on the saddle this son of his old age. After crossing a long stretch of sand and fording a shallow arm of the Nile, the procession climbed the high bank, 36 A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. rode along the dike and struck through the sailors patronized their goolahs, and the wheat-fields. The western shore of a few piastres were well expended on the river at Thebes is a little pastoral them; for bronze Fatmeh, black Anuba, and even mocking Ayesha~ were decorative accessories, pleasant to look at, and there was a mine of wealth in their conversation. In spite of their battle at the waters edge the Howa- gat were rather fond of don- key-boys, and moved ordi- narily about the streets of Luxor with a retinue of them; but on this day the Luxor contingent was ab- sent, it did not go to the western bank with small parties. Such visits would have entailed resentment on the party of the westerners, and beatings at their hands when the chance offered. Only when the semi-weekly battalion of Cooks tourists poured over the river to Medinet or the tombs of the Kings, needing every donkey in the district, did the Luxor boys go; for the westerners were bigger than they, and bad not been softened into effeminacy by life in the mud metropolis~ world of flocks and herds, of sheep, opposite them. Indeed, to the moralis- goats, baby camels, and donkeys too tic inhabitants of Karnak who put their young to be loaded. There are no vil- endeavor into agriculture and begging, lages like Karnak or Luxor, but wind- to the Koorneh men who devoted theirs swayed seas of wheat and barley break- to mummy stealing, and the manufact- ing against the magnificent cliffs which ure of excellent imitation scarabs, Luxor are the necropolis of ancient Thebes; is corrupt from contact with the Gia- while among the green and yellow waves our, its standard of morality low. But of grain rise, like out - lying reefs, the Luxor and Karnak alike disapproved of ruins of the Ramesseum and of Koor- Fatmeh, who had just come among the uch. water - carriers. Also they admired And now there came to meet us six disapproved because at the preposterous little Rebeccas, their long veils dragging age of nearly thirteen years she was in the dust as the bearers ran forward, still unveiled and carried a water-jar for their heads glistening with water-drops foreigners; admired because she was the splashed from their jars small jars beauty of the district. Said Yussuf which these little canephoraf carried all Mohammed, embodying the morality of day long, offering them from time to his native village, if a Howaga wants time as they ran beside the donkeys water at Karnak a boy gives it him; if fleet and tireless through the sand and a girl brought it, her parents would over the rocks. These clay bottles were stick a knife in her. Yussufs wifes full of unfiltered water, and that brought mother, like Peters, lay sick of a fever, with the luncheon was preferable, but and because the wife visited the poor~ Coptic Girl of Luxor. A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. 37 old woman several times, he divorced her; it was evident that he was a moral- ist and disciplinarian. Indeed he boast- ed of it as he led the ladys donkey through the wheat, and vaunted his own abstemiousness, saying that he did not even drink coffee in the morning, but took only a little bread and a few trees (i.e., dates) for breakfast. On being scolded for beating his donkey, he ar- gued wisely I tell him twice, he not do it, then I must beat him ; yes, I beat my wife too when she give me some wordsnot much, only two or three stick. The fact that in America a wife- beater might be imprisoned and a di- 88 A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. vorce obtained by the woman, overcame him utterly. Somewhere the founda- tions of society had evidently been un- dermined, who knew but that such a condition of things might reach Egypt. The lady pointing out Pharaoh on the pilon, towcring gigantic over the cap- tives he strikes down, said later, That is just like Egypt, the big man always beats the little one. Yes, he an- swered, smiling brightly, Moslem man very brave ; he beat dog, he beat wife, he beat child. Englishman only beat in bottles! (i.e., battles.) Meanwhile, if we tired of Yussufs Ibiad, the Luxor Sarber. lofty moralizing, there was much dra- matic interest in watching Fatmeh and her admirers. She was the idol of the donkey-boys, and they all, even little eight-year old Abdon, hung on her words and followed in her footsteps; our progress was regulated by her move- ments. When swift Camilla scoured the plain, sticks were swung, donkeys belabored, and regardless of their own wishes or intentions, travellers, sailors, and admirers came tearing, plunging, and hallooing after her; when she stopped to buy sugar-cane, or gossip ith the herdsmen, we trailed along at a snails pace, deserted by our respec- tive motive powers. Fatmeh was a boy- den, tall, strong as a boy, and rather pretty, with a charm- ing, subtle, Leonardesque smile, a~ d though somewhat spoiled by tourists, seemed kind and generous, dividing her dates and sugar-cane with all the others and giving an extra share to the little ones. Her conquests are over now, and she is veiled, muzzled, and married to a son of Abd-er- iRasool; it must sometimes be a trifle dreary for her shut up in a little mud-house after her free life in the open air, but she is not forgotten. All the water-carriers have inherited her name, and each one men- daciously assures you that she is the original Fatmeh. But while we were watch- ing this village idyl, two strange figures, which from a mile away had looked like twin crags rising from a tran- quil sea of rippling wheat, had grown in stature until they towered high in air, and the travellers were at the feet of the Colossi of the plain; statues of Amenophis Ill., kings and gods at once; giant Dioscuri in the Pantheon of deities who appear above and beneath the ground in this vast metropolis. They were warders to a vanished temple, and their faces, which from a height of nearly sixty feet looked across the plain of Thebes toward a great city, have vanished also ; they are A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. 39 worn and crum- bled, but mighty still in their old age; one is a mon- olith, the other, shattered to the waist by an earth- quake, was restored in courses of stone by Septimius Sey- ems. The latter and northern one of the two will al- ways remain to us, not Amenophis, but the vocal Memnon of the Greeks, whose cry to his mother Aurora, whether caused by priestcraft or the action of the sun s rays upon crevices of damp rock, de- lighted the Roman seekers after marvels. From knees to feet Memnon, who had been an autograph album to ancient vis- itors, was covered as closely as a printed page with handsome Greek lettering, and it was curious to see how the vandal John Jones of to-day, who had cut his name on the monuments, became tolerable and even fascinating as he receded into an- tiquity. One liked to see where Greek mercenaries had left their mark, where Roman legionaries garrisoning some hot frontier fortress had put up an inscrip- tion, where monks had cut a rude cross, or even where Bonapartes Frenchmen had scrawled their names. Looking at the finely cut Greek inscriptions of the Colossus, and the archaistic verses com- posed by the best society of the antique world, it is easy to imagine their authors at work here. The background has changed but little since they stood in the early morning, waiting to hear Mem- non; the dawn turned the Libyan range to rosy gold, and the dew-wet beau flowers were as frequent then as now; the water of the inundation still stood here and there in the meadows reflecting the young corn in its glassy poois; the Nile twisted through the wheat-fields like a sacred dragon scaled with gold and purple; the three peaks of the Arabian chain rose pyramid-like at the end of the long, flat-topped mountain wall that guards the eastern plain; but the great temple, of which now only a few scattered blocks and prostrate col umus remain, then lay behind the Co- lossi. Thebes was still splendid with her temples and shrines ; Karnak tow- ered high above the palms at the end of her wide, sphinx-bordered avenue; to right and left of Memnon, backed against the mountains, or rising from the plain, were the temples of Ramessids, and Thothmes, and Ptolemies, still gorgeous with their old magnificence in spite of Time and Cambyses, and the Roman robbers. Perhaps Hadrian, the hand- some dilettante trifler with the arts, was roused from his sullen melancholy by all this beauty ; perhaps he was still mourning the loss of his favorite An- tinous, and even the gods voice could [7) A VCL.I I: ~r~Ki \//\\ ~ 40 A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. not comfort him. Be that as it may, he came alone to hear Memnon, and it was not until some days later that he was followed by the Empress Sabina and her train. A fine spectacle it must have been! Augusta in a rage because Memnon, who like most singers had his caprices, remained obstinately silent; the house- philosopher in his Stoics cloak, carry- ing the pet lap-dog; the elegant young chamberlains, whom early rising had made a trifle cross ; the pretty painted court - ladies shielding their delicately~ tinted cheeks from the sunlight and yawning behind jewelled fingers; Julia Balbilla writing the Done and IEolian verses which in that age of archaistic bric-?i-brac, of grammarians and acad-~ emies, were much admired; then there were bearers carrying the bronze litters, half-naked, clean-limbed runners shiver- ing a little in the cool dawn; pert slave girls laden with their mistresss scarfs and parasols; a crowd of beggars and water-carriers, of porters and charioteers. A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. 41 and servants servants, a whole retinue, Memnon silent, we refrained from ex- of which we and our little train seemed pressing our disappointment in archaic like a modern parody. Greek verse, and cutting our names and They were aristocratic pilgrims gen- dignities upon the statue, yet, like the erally who visited the Colossusculti- old Pagans when they stood before the vated, travelled, and aesthetically devout; god, we remembered those who love generals of the Thebaid, governors of us. nomes, poets of the Museum, priests of Then our little procession filed away Serapis, prefects of the legion and of and left the giants sitting as they have the camp, domestic patres familiarum sat since all of history that we know travelling, like Gemellus, with his dear has begun, and grown, and passed ; twin wife iRutilia and his children, celebrities guardians at the gates of human records like Strabo and Germanicus, the Em- which they have seen roll down the val- perors Hadrian and Septimius Severus, ley of the Nile, till the narrow scroll empresses, noble ladies, and such smaller broadened into the sea of universal his- fry as Decurions and Centurions, who, tory. like bluff soldiers, wrote their names in It was a long ride still from the Latin, while the finer folk affected Greek; Colossi to Medinet Haboo, the road for, since Juvenals time the Gmeculus running along the dikes which become had become a Roman institution, the only paths during the inundation; It was then the custom for pilgrims on either side the wheat- and bean-fields or travellers, when visiting a shrine or seemed greener than elsewhere in the monument, to salute the local genius in world, palms rose in graceful groups, the name of their friends or loved ones while before and behind and around at home, in order that they too might towered the rock mountains, deepest share in the blessings of the holy place. yellow against a cloudless sky, with the On the Colossus are many examples of river in their midst, a thread of silver these proscynemata or reverential saluta- upon a sea of emerald girdled with a tions offered for the absent in this sweet rampart of gold. old fashion, and after having duly ad- The people, too, in spite of dirt and mired the erudite Greek verses and the poverty, were not unworthy of this titles and honors of the dignitaries, it is glowing background; strength they a pleasure to turn to the records of less have always, and the dignity of carriage famous folk we know nothing of, save peculiar to the older races, and a cer- that when the god sang they thought tam indescribable grace born of their of those who loved them; of Helio- life in the open air, their simple, loosely dorus, who heard Memnon four times, girdled garments, and their well-trained, and remembered his brothers Teno and muscular bodies. Many of the young Aianus; or of Ca~cilia Trebulla, who men deserve the eulogies of the Arab wrote, Hearing the sacred voice of poets. Copper-colored lads, chested Memnon, I thought of thee, 0, my like Antinous, naked but for loin-cloth mother, and I made a vow that thou and skull-caps, passed us, carrying just mightst hear it also. Few who have such implements as Josephs overseers read his words will forget the Greek distributed to Pharaohs workmen; who crossed the shining river and women rode by on shaggy buffaloes; these Elysian fields, all violet starred little nude children dragged sugar-cane and scented in the still gray morning, stalks behind them, and, like Birnam saw the dawn kindle into flame behind wood coming to Dunsinane, the camels the Arabian crags, heard Memnons re- laden with great bundles of grayish- sonant cry to the goddess, and carved green canes stalked through the rustling upon the stone I, Aponius, heard at grain. By and by we skirted a mud the first hour, I wrote the proscynema village, where a big dog flew at us with of my wife Aphroditerion, why have I what might be called fierce caution, not her with me while thou singest. much rush and barking, but careful Though we, who crossed the same avoidance of striking distance, and sacred river and the same flowery where, under the rare shade of a syca- meadows in the dewy morning, found more, a tiny child with a high light VOL. XI.4 42 A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. upon its shaven head, drove round and round the oxen of a huge creaking sa- keeyeh or water-wheel which, as its long row of mossy pots dipped and flashed in the sunshine, droned out as always that legendary bit of Egyptian gossip, Iskenderornein, Alexander has horns. The story is that the barber of Alex- ander the Great, sell-styled son of Am- mon, whose twisted rams horns are plain enough still on the antique coins the peasants find and sell, in cutting the god-kings hair, discovers this se- cret. Not daring to tell it, but longing for a confidant, he whispered it to the sakeeyeh, but the water - wheel was garrulous, and to this day every sakee- yeh in Egypt is turned scandal-monger, and murmurs drowsily Alexander has horns. Though the great conqueror has been forgotten except by the water-wheel, Antinous is often in the thoughts of the Nile traveller, for he not only gave his name to ruined Antinoopolis, but the memory of the straight brows, the long, heavy-lidded eyes, the ripe curved lips, above all of the widely arche4 chest of the Roman statues, lives in every Egyp- tian village; the marble has turned to animated bronze, and against some sun- lit wall in bazaar or market-place one may see again and again, silhouetted darkly, the very profile of the relief in the Villa Albani. It is not strange that he, rather than the Hermes or the Apollo is suggested, and only means that mod- ern Egypt, where female comeliness is rare, and male beauty frequent, is more akin by blood to antique Asia Minor than to ancient Greece, and that the young Bithynian of Hadrians court was but an archetype of the men who bend their magnificent torsos at the shadoof, or shine like polished bronze amid the wheat. But if these nude bronzes re- call the Vatican, the draped figures in their trailing brown and blue and rus- set woollens seem likewise strangely familiar. Under the trees, and by some creaking water - wheel, men and wom- en sit upon the river bank swathed in their long robes. As you look, the lofty palms melt together into the dusky vaulting of the Sistine Chapel, the sakee- yehs groan swells into an organ tone, for here in the east, and here only, the people of 1~Jichael Angelo walk about the earth. The head drapery, so special to the great Florentines women, is always present, even on the youngest girls. The IDelphian sibyl sits upon the shore and stares with wide startled eyes upon the dahabeeyeh; Lybica turns away just as in the fresco Cuma~ bends her head upon her hand; the turbaned prophets, the nude Titans, are all there. That bible first made pictorially living to us by the great fifteenth century masters, moves and lives upon the banks of the Nile. Every evening at sunset Raphaels women go up the bank, bearing their water-jars to the Incendio del Birgo, or the Arab village, as one pleases; even the least observant person who has passed through Italy must be instant- ly reminded of the Roman school of painting, with its robustness, its state- liness, and its draperies, muffling, or clinging, or wind-tossed. A woman may be plain, even ugly, but when her face is shrouded she becomes quite beautiful from the graceful lines of the long veil and the gown, as they stream in the wind or cling in multiplied folds to the lithe body that bends over the water- jar; the boy who runs beside your don- key is often but a smug-faced lad, but his muscular torso and slender, vigorous limbs suggest the antique athlete. Indeed, the whole land might be a studio to Leonardo, elaborating the folds of garments with his careful pen- cil; or to Benvenuto, who found pleas- ure inexpressible in drawing the small muscles that lie along the ribs ; to the student of draperies, and the lover of the nude. Unfortunately, though the Egyptian men are willing enough to sit for artists, the women run away at the mere sight of a sketch-book, they fear the evil eye, they fear the evil tongues of gossiping neighbors, they fear any- thing and everythingabove all having to sit still. Their heads are little, say the men; no wonder, poor things, for with their water-jars the Moslem women bear upon those little heads a heredity of thirteen hundred years of ignorance and con- tempt. It is not good for Arab girl to read and write, for then she will write to men, and she will not want to carry A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. 43 water and make soup, says Mahmoud, the Red Sea painted in this temple of using a time-honored argument; and Rameses Ill., son to the Pharaoh of the our Captain Tanyos holds up his hands exodus. It was only a hasty impression, when told that in America girls sometimes go to school longer than the boys. Even our extraordinary custom of having a new sultan every four years is less incompre- hensible to the Oriental mind. Most fascinating of all are the children who nes- tle under the Madonna-like veils, or sit astride the shoul- ders of these women; im- agine Barbediennes bronze Cupids transformed to soft- est flesh, all melting curves and deep dimples; look through smoked glass at the round - cheeked, grave - eyed cherubs of the Renaissance; or fancy the dusky - tinted Tanagra Loves with their little cloaks and printed hoods, and heavy wreaths, dancing, frolicking, laugh- ing, and you may have some idea of the baby graces of the young Egyptians, graces that even ophthalmia, wretched feeding, and neg- lect cannot destroy. At last the gates of Med- met Haboo rose before us behind sentry - mounds of dark red rubbish, which were once the surrounding wall of the temple, the perishable River Bank. outer garment that has fall- en away while the mighty monuments however, for the little Egyptian task- within seem likely to double their pres- masters, so near to the end of the jour- ent age; the travellers went straight ney, whooped and shouted, the donkeys through the pilon doors and into a fore tore over the rubbish heaps, the cloud of court, where d6bris lies piled up in dust was so choking that our whole at- great hummocks, like billows of a rub- tention was given to keeping it out of bish whirlpool. It is a whirlpool, for eyes and mouth; in through a second the wind has circled about those square door we went, up forty - five degrees, courts for tens of centuries, here banking and then down again, and we were in the the sand high against capital and archi- main court of the temple. trave, there scooping it into gulfs; carved It is one of the noblest courts in and painted goddesses upon the walls Egypt, not particularly large, only one emerged waist - deep, files of soldiers hundred and twenty-three by one hun- were buried to their throats, chariots dred and thirty-eight feet, but showing appeared to struggle through it, till one with unusual completeness the massive had a confused sense that here might qualities which distinguish Egyptian be an overwhelming of the Egyptians in architecture; on two sides run colon- ~b Silhouettes at Sunaet along the 44 A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. nades of columns Qniy three diameters in height, on the two others are huge piers showing still the Osirid figures, now sadly battered, which stood against them. White is the prevailing color of it all, with faint traces of red here and there; while strong, rich blues remain under the architraves and on the ceiling of the colonnades. About upon the walls are gods and kings and priests, the vic- tories and the triumphs of iRameses III., battles, processions, and sacrifices, and above them, in the temple eaves, the swallows scold. What a sight it must have been when the offerings were burnt, and the choral hymn went up, and the glittering procession swept down the portico past the Osirid giants that then were whole and gorgeous with color, each one a statue of the divin~ized king. After the days of the priests of Ammon came the Christian monks, building a church in this very court, breaking away the architraves and setting up columns which would seem large in any other place, but here are mere pygmies beside the work of the old Egyptians. The monks made a nave of the columns, pierced square holes for beams, and carefully plastered mud over the pict- ures of the Heathen, exorcising the devil and embalming his works for a curious nineteenth century; hammering away too under the African sun at the Colossi; going out between the hymns to hack at some royal visage until, within the sacred enclosure at least, the giants were utterly destroyed. After the Christians came desolation, then a Coptic village, and again the desolation which is now upon the place. In this temple of Hameses Ill., built by the king to commemorate his Syri- an victories, the whole triumph of an Egyptian conqueror is set forth. It is entered through a fortress-gate; on the huge pilons the royal victor grasps the conquered by the hair; in the first ball are rows of captives bound or suppliant, cornices supported on the heads of pris- oners, and over the doorway, filling sev- enty lines of deeply-cut hieroglyphics, is the record of the kings victories; just beyond lies the second court, in which the traveller makes his first stop; for Egyptians are conservative, and long ago the donkey-boys found that this is the proper place for the Howaga to dismount; if he prefers to enter the temple quietly, and to examine it con- secutively, he will have to combat not only the deeply - rooted prejudices of his donkey-boy, for they may be over- come, but those of his donkey, which are ineradicable. After all it is the finest of the three grand courts, and first impressions are worth much, so it is wiser to submit to the inevitable and begin the study of the temple here. The walls are covered with illustrations of the spirited chronicle carved above the entrance, and we can follow the king step by step as he fights, conquers, and triumphs; here he charges in his war-chariot and overwhelms the enemy with his arrows; there the captive chiefs of the Libyans are led before him, offi- cers bring heaps of hands cut from dead adversaries, while the kings scribe counts them. Then the victor at the head of the troops arrives at Thebes, prisoners are bound to his chariot- wheels, princes are his fan-bearers, and the gods themselves congratulate him on his prowess; all the charming detail of the procession in Gautiers Roman de la Momie may be admired in the panels that follow, celebrating the anni- versary of Bamesess coronation; the long lines of soldiers and priests, the strange musical instruments, the images and holy arks, the sacred hawk and bull, the statues of deified royal ancestors, the sacrifices before the flower-laden al- tars, all the minutia~ of the ceremonial still exist and we can easily picture it, the golden statues, and the helmets, and the white linen robes shining in the sun, as the procession wound over the green plain and halted at the temple gate. Only the monarch entered the court where we stand to-day, the crowd re- mained without, a few privileged nobles passed into the first court, but the priest-king alone penetrated to the sanctuary, to pour the libation and of- fer the sacrifice as pope and emperor at once, he bore to the gods the vows and prayers of his people. At present the sacred place is filled with donkeys and their drivers, antee- ka-sellers carrying fragments of mum- my, bits of gayly painted wooden cases, A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. 45 handfuls of blue beads, and shining new scarabs fresh from the manufactory at Koorneh, beggars too, three blind men and their baby guides, and little naked children shivering in the wind, who have left their cotton gowns out- side the temple to excite compassion, and whose pigeon English, learnt at the mission-schools, is a source of income to their families, and of delight to the tourist. Here we dismounted and dispersed, the workers to sketch and compare texts with the original hieroglyphics, the idlers to explore every nook and corner of this most picturesque and in- teresting of Egyptian ruins. So they waded ankle-deep through the dust, loose stones, and potsherds, to the strange outlying building which has so long puzzled the archaeologists, and has been called in turn, palace, pavilion, and stronghold; its crenelated walls, its shield-shaped battlements, and its narrow gate flanked by bastions, all in- cline one to believe with Professor Mas- pero that it was a fortress-gate, a mili- tary arch of triumph, built to celebrate Rameses II1.s Syrian campaigns. With much advice and assistance we climbed to the second story of the tower, where the king still plays draughts with one slender maiden and chucks another under the chin. It is the sultan in his harem, say the donkey-boys. This game of draughts has a sym- bolical signification; it was one of the pleasures promised to the virtuous in the future llfe, according to a most re- vered authority. In the lower chamber over the gate are sculptures in low rellef represent- ing the king in the womens apart- ments, says our guide-book. Whether these slim, bejewelled girls are goddesses, symbols, or mere mortal odalisques, they are, what is more im- portant to the on-looker, decoratively charming, and are, like so many things in Egypt, nice pegs to hang theories on. With many longing looks at the cham- bers high out of reach of tourists, un- provided with scallug-ladders, wherein the Egyptian caricaturist dared to ridi- cule the god-king, and which, in this temple devoted to the apotheosis of the royal conqueror, remind one of the satirical verses sung by the Roman sol- diers marching in the tri~imph of a vie- ANEXCIJI%IC)IN (W~ OCI~fl(EY13ACK 7/: I 7 ~1~ 46 A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. torious general, the little party scram- bled down and passed through the great courts, again stopping in the third to examine the stumps of columns, and the dark chambers once filled with the treasure Rameses dedicated to Ammon. Here lay gold in grains, bars of silver, pyramids of emeralds and turquoises, heaps of seal-rings engraved with the kings name, and all sorts of jewels in chests of bright copper, justifying the kings boast to Ammon, Thou hast secured gold and silver like sands on the sea- shore. What a find this precious hoard would have been for the thieving Theban brothers of the old Greek legend, in which the king Rhamsinitos is no other than this same Rameses III. IJnfortu- nately the modern treasure-seekers who cleared away the Coptic village that cov- ered the temple, found only a quantity of little blue porcelain Osirid figures, probably buried when the foundations of the building were laid, and even they, like the giants of the piers, were broken. Later excavations by M. Bouriant in the first court, have uncovered files of cruelly bound prisoners whose lips and brows are contracted by pain, and a cornice supported by four captives, of different nationalities (the Egyptian At- lantides), in which the types are much more marked than in any other sculpt- ures. From the fiat roof of the temple, which was easily reached by climbing one of the mounds of d6bris that sur- round it, was a wide view, not only of the Nile Valley, but of the temple backed against the mountain, which with its steep walls and fiat terraces covered with wind-blown sand, seemed to con- tinue the lines of the building itself. As one leaned over the broken cyno- cephali, ancient guardians of the door, once covered with golden plates which rejoiced the heart of Ammon, it was easy to understand what a safe refuge the early Christians found here behind the crenelated walls, when they filled the temple with their mud huts clustering about the church in their midst. From this roof they doubtless watched the Arabs coming across the desert befor& that last siege when they were driven out and fled to Es- neh. Meanwhile Naf- ady and iViahacel had been preparing lunch, spreading the cloth in the shade of the col- umns, and lighting a fire of newspapers and sticks under the slow alcohol lamp, to hasten the coffee boiling; Egyptians do not take kindly to modern improve- ments, our cook for some time used the oven to heat irons, and always made a charcoal fire in it under his bread. After luncheon, Fatmeh was sketched as she sat leaning against an Osirid pier; just above her head Rameses m. offered pots of precious unguent to Osi- ris; faint traces of red lingered on the kings narrow torse and straight legs; the pillar, rich asphalt where it entered the earth, paled and whitened as it neared the roof painted brightest blue and sprinkled with stars, the light re- flected from the tawny pilon on her right, and the sunny pavement at her feet turned the girls face to a delicious golden bronze. Indeed, with her dark dress and veil, her hair curiously braid- ed above her brow in classic fashion, and her home-made necklace and earrings of turquoise blue beads, she suggested one of those archaic Greek statuettes which, bedecked with real jewels, stare solemnly out of their enamel eyes. Unfortunate- ly, she was far from being as immovable and turned her head incessantly, first to where Mahacel with many chuckles was examining the sculptures of the northern wall, the heaps of cut hands appealing apparently to his sense of humor; then to the centre of the court, where Vusuf the disciplinarian and another lad were A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. 47 fighting ; Yusuf, before we could inter- fere, pulling off several yards of his ad- versarys turban hand over hand, in a most diverting manner. When order was finally restored Fatmeh was no qui- eter, for the donkey - boys, finding that she was an object of interest to the trav- ellers, began to discuss her matrimonial prospects; they were soon absorbed in calculations as to how much she cost, for Egyptian parents receive a certain sum of money for their daughters from the future bridegrooms, though probably this price is no more fixed than that of any other article in this land of bar- gaining. I can get her for five guineas, said one young man, because I am her cousin, and of course she is cheaper for one of the family. They ask much money for her be- cause she brings home a great deal; the travellers give her many piastres for carrying water, added another, in ex- planation. They want seven guineas for her, that is too much, added a third pru- dent youth. He then informed us that Fatmehs parents did not live together, her mother had been divorced, and her father, pocketing all his daughters earn- ings, lived in elegant leisure, giving wife and child an allowance of two dollars a month. Yusuf, thinking that we were unfamiliar with the Moslem system of divorce, which allows the husband, like the customer of the Paris Bon March6, to change articles that have ceased to please, felt called upon to explain in English, My wife not bey me, not blease me, I tell it emshee (go away), then if I got children I eat (feed) those children, yes, I must eat um some- times two, three years. Meanwhile the subject of these dis- cussions crouched, glaring like a little panther at her calculating suitors; even our sailors gallant remark that he would give twenty or even fifty guineas for her, failed to restore her equanimity; later, however, she was quite consoled by be- ing allowed to admire the landscape through an astygmatic lorgnon and b? the gift 6f a biscuit tin. This was in- deed a treasure, it was strong box, tambourine, and mirror at once, excited the envy of all the others, and probably added several piastres to Fatmehs mar- ket value; for of all the products of western civilization, that most readily assimilated by the Arab is the tin can. Beating time on her new possession, Fatmeh ran after us Miriam-like, while we strolled off to see the sculptured sea- fight which the king, in memory of the naval victory at Migdol, had carved on this temple of triumphs. It interested us all, but to one of our party it afforded real mental solace. Nafady was our fa- vorite sailor, tireless, prompt, and won- derfully helpful; he did so much general work that sometimes it seemed as though the progress of the dahabeeyeh depend- ed on his individual exertions; so we had nicknamed him the Button, re- membering the boys definition of re- sponsibility: When youve only one suspender button to your trousers there is a great deal of responsibility on that button. The days excursion had not been a happy one to him, for Nafady was proud of the office that he shared with only one or two of the sailors, that of special attendant upon the ladies on all expedi- tions; so that when the Cairene Mahaeel stepped forward to help them with the superior assurance of the metropolis, the Button, who was a villager, felt wronged and humiliated. All day long he glow- ered at Mahaeel, and when at the end of the excursion the latter, to save his ca- nary-colored gown and red shoes, instead of wading to the small boat, was carried through the water by two sailors, his legs sticking out straight like a Howagas, Nafady turned away with a grunt of fierce contempt. But the sea-fight consoled him: a born sailor, his one joy in temples was the discovery upon their pictured walls of meralcib or boats; there are plenty of them, from the barks of Ha and Horns to the roughly scrawled da- habeeyehs, the work of contemporane- ous amateurs. Like Dickenss Cooks tourist, who passed all his time among the finest Italian monuments in finger- ing and spelling out inscriptions with a Platonic interest quite unaffected by his innocence of Latin, Nafady stood unimpressed in the giant hall at Kar- nak or the great court at Edfru, until a joyous chuckle told us that he had dis- covered a ship. Medinet Haboo, from 48 A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. his point of view, had been but a dreary waste of sculptured stone until he saw the roW~ of small boats filled with sail- ors and fighting men, then it became an object of interest meriting the whole at- tention of Nafadys mind, and not one of those monuments intrinsically worth- less, but to be tolerated because attrac- tive to howagat who employed boats as a preliminary to visiting them. While Nafady looked and admired, the big Howaga, accompanied by a pleasant-faced, middle-aged Arab, had joined us, and the latter was introduced as Abd-er-Rasool, a native of Koorneh, who, with his brother Mohammed, dis- covered the famous pit of Dehr-el- Bahari in which the royal mummies, now in the Boulak museum, were hid- den. For many years they kept the precious secret, cautiously selling from time to time the smaller objects found in the cache, but the blue statuettes and the papyri finally attracted the atten- tion and aroused the suspicions of the Egyptologists; testimony from various sources convinced Professor Maspero that these Theban brothers, like those of the old Greek legend, were plundering a royal treasury. Abd - er -Basool was threatened, imprisoned, and bastinadoed, but he kept the secret well, never open- ing his lips except to protest his inno- cence; he was finally released after ten weeks confinement, and returned tri- umphantly to his native village. A day or two after his elder brother, Moham- med, frightened at the severe treatment Abd - er - iRasool had experienced, and apprehensive that his turn might come next, quietly went to the authorities and made a full confession. Thus, this important find came to light; the hill foxes of Koorneh had unearthed the dead lions, and world-famous kings of Egypt journeyed down to Cairo to the museum of Boulak. We were amused and personally inter- ested by the fact that, only a few days before the arrest of Abd - er - Rasool, Professor Maspero and the big How- aga wandered up into the immedi- ate vicinity of the shaft, collecting pot-, sherds scrawled with Greek accounts; so to this day the Arabs believe that they found upon the sherds indica- tions which led to the discovery of the brothers secret. Nevertheless, this same Abd-er-Rasool was still very friendly with the big Howaga, and had toiled over the long hot desert road to see him and be presented to his family. The Servant of the Prophet was evidently very proud of his connec- tion with royalty, and offered to guide us to the scene of his exploits, an offer that was gladly accepted; and as the shadows grew a little longer our cavalcade filed out of the stronghold gate between the twin sentinels, the cat-headed goddesses who guard the narrow way. The road to the cache ran over the desert, honey- combed with graves long since rifled by The peasants in their search for antiqui- ties; on our left was the great rock wall of petrified Nile mud millennials, old, curiously ribbed and crevassed, here chalk white, there clay color, again pure brown ochre, while the topmost crags shone in the sun like giant nuggets of pure yellow gold. Beyond the little temple of Dehr- el - Medinet, the mountains, hollowed, buttressed, and pinnacled by primeval floods, thrust great spurs into the des- ert below, forming a series of valleys. The sand swept up the sides of the crags like a great sea, foamed over the huge rocks, and dashed even their crests with its spray; here, in one of the wildest of these gorges, at the bot- tom of a deep shaft fanged with sharp stones, Sesostris and his brother kings lay hidden for thousands of years; when and why they were carried there from their tombs is still a mystery, probably to save them from the hands of robbers or invaders. As we stood about the mouth of the pit, Abd-er-lIlasool, his bright face all frankness and sincerity, told us how the Mudeer of Keneh threw him into prison, and had him cruelly beaten again and again without being able to force from him anything but the re- peated assertion, I am a poor man, until fortitude and a persistent denial obtained his release; when his brother, though unbeaten, lost heart and gave up the secret. No warrior returning from a hard - fought victory, no Egyptian peasant limping homeward lame from the tax-collectors bastinado, with his unpaid money hidden under his tongue, A DAY WITH THE DONKEY-BOYS. 49 was ever prouder of his constancy than was Abd-er-IRasool. Just before we left he seized old Khaleefa, who was fussing about, and shook him laughing over the pit. Shall I drop him in? said this modern follower of Josephs brethren. ~ answered the sailors, he would make a good mummy; all he needs is a little gilding and paint. Khaleefa, quite undisturbed, let his leathern old face, which seventy years of Egyptian sunshine had indeed mummi- fledno paraschites could have done the VOL. XI.5 work better crack into a thousand laughing wrinkles, and we slid down the cool gray sand-slope, looking back now and then toward the mountain, that glorious sepulchre of the Pharaohs. Then we rode riverward out of the giant shadow of the crags into the ra- diant valley; the sun was sinking and the great artist was gilding his handi- work into even greater splendor, each blade of wheat was a golden spear, the palm-trunks were pillars of rough gold, and the herdsmen going home to their 50 BOKHARA REViSITED. evening meal moved like Byzantine saints against a golden background. The blue smoke curled upward from the mud villages, like the sacred sym- bol on some temple architrave, a vult- ure rose heavily into the still air, in the east the three peaks of the Arabian chain flushed orange and crimson and purple, fire opals set in the ring of a horizon of light. The people of the Bible were all around us glorified by the evening sky: Jacob tall and dark, his deep eyes burning under the linen headeloth, drove home his flocks and herds; Rebecca passed us with Isaacs jewels of gold and silver glittering on her brown arms; Esau unyoked the tired oxen of the water-wheel; Laban, white-bearded and solemn, rode by; Ruth smiled at us from where she stood waist-deep in the wheat; and just at hand, riding on an ass, a young child in her arms, yonder low-browed girl seemed the Divine Mother herself, for the whole plain and sky were a halo about her. BOKHARA REVISITED. By Henry Lansdell, D.D., M.R.A.S., F.KG.S. ON my first visit to Bokhara in since that date, that when, six years 1882, the country had been shut later, I reapproached the country, it up for centuries to such an cx- was by railway from Merv. tent that no Englishman then living had The line between these two places, been in the Khanate. So rapid, how- however, in one respect, is perhaps the ever, has been the progress of events most remarkable in the world; by rca- College of Divan Beggi, at Bokhara.

50 BOKHARA REViSITED. evening meal moved like Byzantine saints against a golden background. The blue smoke curled upward from the mud villages, like the sacred sym- bol on some temple architrave, a vult- ure rose heavily into the still air, in the east the three peaks of the Arabian chain flushed orange and crimson and purple, fire opals set in the ring of a horizon of light. The people of the Bible were all around us glorified by the evening sky: Jacob tall and dark, his deep eyes burning under the linen headeloth, drove home his flocks and herds; Rebecca passed us with Isaacs jewels of gold and silver glittering on her brown arms; Esau unyoked the tired oxen of the water-wheel; Laban, white-bearded and solemn, rode by; Ruth smiled at us from where she stood waist-deep in the wheat; and just at hand, riding on an ass, a young child in her arms, yonder low-browed girl seemed the Divine Mother herself, for the whole plain and sky were a halo about her. BOKHARA REVISITED. By Henry Lansdell, D.D., M.R.A.S., F.KG.S. ON my first visit to Bokhara in since that date, that when, six years 1882, the country had been shut later, I reapproached the country, it up for centuries to such an cx- was by railway from Merv. tent that no Englishman then living had The line between these two places, been in the Khanate. So rapid, how- however, in one respect, is perhaps the ever, has been the progress of events most remarkable in the world; by rca- College of Divan Beggi, at Bokhara. ENGRAVED BY ANDREW. The Emir Df Bokhara and his Treasurer. 52 BONHARA REVISITED. son, that is, of the horrible des- ert over which it passes. This desert is not merely sandy, but of sand entirely, with this addi- tional drawback, that whereas the sands on the coast of the Caspian may by labor be half- fixed, those near the Oxus are at the mercy of every wind that blows. They cover the face of tbe country in barkhans, or sickle-shaped hills, varying in height up to 100 feet. The pre- vailing wind comes from the northeast, on which side the barkhans are convex and grad- ual in ascent, while the other face is concave and steep. When agitated by a strong wind they present a certain resemblance to the waves of the ocean, with spray being scattered from ev- ery billow. I first examined some of these barkhans in Khokand, and had not forgotten crossing the sands of Sundukli, east of the Oxus, in 1882, when it took twenty men, twenty horses, and a camel to get my carriage to its destination. I was curi- ous, therefore, to see what measures had been taken to cope with a like ob- stacle on the railway. A similar defence, it appeared, had been adopted to that employed in Russia against the snownamely, open pal- isades, about three feet high, placed on the side of the rails whence come the prevailing winds, but with this marked differ- ence of result, that where- as the snow thus stopped in its drift disappears with the warmth of spring, the sand remains, Costumes of Bokhara Womenon the the house. BOKHARA REVISITED. 53 The Gur-Emir, or Mausoleum of Tamerlane at Samarkand. and augments the possibilities of the line being covered. In certain places, plantations of bushes suitable to the soil have been placed beside the way, but until these grow it seems inevita- ble that from time to time, after strong winds, the rails will need to be cleared as after a snow-storm. It was by reason of this uncertainty as to what might be the condition of the road that our train, though arriving at Merv in the morning, did not leave until nearly midnight, so as to traverse the worst part of the sandy desert by day. In the gray dawn of very early morning we reached a station signifi- cantly named Pesky, after the surround- ing sand. Here we bade farewell to the few to- kens remaining of the Merv oasis, after which sunrise found us at IRepetek, where was a refreshment station, with only brackish water for making tea, and then we plunged in among the sand bar- khans, where nothing was visible all round but sand - hills; while a more desolate outlook than we had from the carriage windows, in steaming along, could hardly be imagined. I congratu- lated myself, however, upon getting over the ground west of the Oxus with infi- nitely less discomfort than I had rid- den over similar country eastward, with sand blowing in my face, and my horse sinking at every step to his knees. Finally, about six miles west of the Amu - dana, cultivation reappeared, with fortified mud - houses and walls and trees, the last somewhat larger than those of Merv. We had now en- 54 BOKHARA REVISITED. tered the oasis of Charjui, a narrow strip of cultivated land belonging to Bokhara on the west bank of the Oxus, and at ten oclock we arrived at the sta- tion Amu - dana, thus completing a journey of six hundred and seventy miles from the Caspian in sixty hours of actual travel. The local railway potentate for this part of the line was Prince Khilkoff, who had been kind enough to send to the station a carriage to take me to be guest of Colonel Nicholas Tcharykow, the Russian Political Agent (or Resident, as the English would call be one of the most polished and gen- tlemanly of Russian officers I have ever met. Though unable to go out, he made my stay thoroughly enjoyable, and knowing well my writings on Bok- hara, he was able to confirm or other- wise what had been written, and to give information upon several points con- nected with the present condition of the country. Since my previous visit the Emir Mu- zaffar-ed-din had died, and had been succeeded by his fourth son, Seid Abdul Ahad, of whom it was pleasant to hear that he had introduced certain reformB him) in Bokhara, but who for the mo- and improvements; as, for instance, ment was laid up here with a broken that, on coming to the throne, he had ankle. The Colonel spoke English flu- proclaimed throughout the country lib- ently, having received a part of his early erty to slaves. education in Edinburgh, and proved to Nominally, the slave-markets of Bok Jews of Sokhara. 55 BOKHARA kEVISITED. hara, under compulsion from the Rus- sians, had long been closed, and when I was at Charjui in 1882 I did not sus- pect the trade to be going on; but that Persian girls were brought by the Tur- komans and sold there I learned after my return to England, from Colonel Stewart, who had left eastern Persia only a few weeks previously, and I thereupon, with his consent, published his statement by way of confirmation of IMI. Stremoukhoff5 letters to the St. Pe- tersburg Gazette, stating that the odious trade was not completely stamped out in Bokhara. It was a wise and humane policy, therefore, of the Russians to advise~~ (which meant to command) the young Emir not merely to prohibit the trade, but to set at liberty those already bound, and to send special orders to the frontier towns that if any slaves were imported there, they should be immediately set at liberty. Thus, what- ever may be said in disfavor of Russias annexations, it should not be forgotten that she has by this last measure com- pleted the extirpation of slavery from the shores of the Caspian to China. On my previous visit to Bokhara it was the fashion for the Emir to send nightly, for the amusement of his guests, a troupe of batchas, or dancing boys, with musicians and buffoons. The men with tambourines sat near a charcoal fire in a brazier, over which, from time to time, they held their instruments, to tighten the parchment. The batchas were dressed, I remember, in red flow- ing robes and loose, wide trousers, but were unshod, their most striking pecu- liarity being their long hair, like that of girls. Their dances were interspersed with somersaults and other antics, while during a Persian song and dance whis- tles were introduced, the batchas snap- ping their fingers in time, and then striking in unison their wands. To us the performance soon became wearisome; but with the natives batchas represent their favorite amusement, of- ten with demoralizing and vicious infin Cemetery and Mode of Execution in Bokhara and khiva. Batchas or Dancing Boys with Musicians and Singers, Charjui, BOKHARA REVISITED. ences. One heard and read of the late Emir, when young, having in his harem a number of such boys, the keeping of whom was quite common throughout the Khanate. Colonel Tcharykow in- formed me, however, in answer to my question on the subject, that the new Emir, instead of providing boys, with their tambourine music, for the public entertainment of guests, as did his fa- ther, had forbidden batchas and ordered them to enlist in the army, though it might be that they were in some cases tolerated in private. Something similar may be said with regard to prostitution in Bokhara; for whatever may be done secretly, the Muhammadan law regarding its pro- hibition remains in force, and a case having at the time of my visit recently come to light of two parents selling their daughter for an immoral purpose, the fathers throat was cut and the mother shot, which in Bokhara is a common method of capital punishment for offences of this class. The construction of the railway, I found, speedily made its influence felt on Bokhara trade, insomuch that articles of export doubled in price. The residence, too, of a Russian offi- cer in the capital rendered less impos- sible than before the compilation of trade statistics, which were kindly placed at my service, with the warning that, by reason of the difficulty of obtaining such data, the figures must be regarded as only approximate. Exports from Bolahara. Tons. Value in Pounds. Bokharan trade with Russia. 19,446 1250,000 Bokharan trade with Persia. 37 212.000 Bokharan trade with India.. 34 42,000 19,517 1,504,000 Imports to Boichara. Tons. Value in Pounds. Bokharan trade with Russia. 10,182 1,060,000 Bokharan trade with Persia. 337 60,000 Bokharan trade with India.. 1,607 547,500 12,126 1,667,500 The amount of native capital in circu- lation in Bokhara is estimated approx- imately at 616,000; but besides na- tive merchants there are Jews, Russians, Hindoos, and Afghans, the Russians pay- ing two and one-half per cent. for ex- port and import duties, and other for- eigners double that amount. It would appear that Bokhara has foreign com- mercial relations with Persia through Merv; with Russia through Orenburg; and with Afghanistan and India through Kilif on the Oxus. The products given me in 1888 as im- ported into Bokhara according to latest information were: From Russia Tons. Iron and metal goods 3,809 Sugar and sweets 1,607 Earthenware 418 Black leather 112 Boxes of paper 225 Drugs 771 Manufactures (camel loads) 22,000 From Persia Tons. Manufactures (camel loads) 130 Skins (camel loads) 100 Hamadan leather (camel loads) 16 Green tea 154 Drugs 145 From India Tons. Green tea 1,125 Indigo 289 Drugs 13 Muslin (camel loads) 1,400 Chinkhob, or cloth of gold (pieces)... 300 Ambasara (shawls) 250 pieces (or yards) 1,555 From Khokand Tons. Silk and stuffs 96 White felt 19 Native writing-paper 11 VoL. XJ.6 57 58 BOKHARA REVISITED. On the other hand, the articles ex- ported from Bokhara were: Cotton Wool . Silk Dried fruits Cotton piece goods ]*iftda, or coarse cotton cloth (yards)... Cotton and silk, native mixtures (yards) Carpets Karakul lambskins (curly) White sheepskins (cured) Barana, or sheepskins. . . Danadav, or gray lambskins Fox skins Kunitza (skins) . Khalats, or robes Sheeps entrails (pieces) On my second evening at the Amu- dana Colonel Tcharykow gave a dinner, and invited to meet me the officers of the garrison and Captain Loewenhagen, the commander of the steamer Czar, then in course of construction on the river, as also an English engineer named Boots. It was a pleasant party, and we broke up at a sensible hour, the signal for departure being the evening muster of the soldiers, who, at the approaching shades of night, and in the midst of Muhammadan surroundings, softly sang their evening hymn and the national anthem, before retiring to rest, in view of an early rise for drilL Next morning I went, by invitation of Captain Loewenhagen, to see the Czar, then lying below the bridge alongside of the barge, or lighter, she was intend- ed to tow. The Czar is a paddle steamer, 150 feet long, 22 feet broad, and 10 feet deep, with plates ~ of an inch in thickness, draw- ing 2 feet of water when unladen, and 6 inches more when carrying 167 tons. Her engines are of 120 nominal and 500 indicated horse-power, steam being gen- erated by naphtha. Naphtha costs here two shillings a hundredweight, thanks to carriage by the railway, which has thus solved one important obstacle to the Russians in navigating the Oxus, since the wood of the saxaul, the only other fuel available, is not to be had in large quantities, is very bulky, and costs nearly sixpence per hundredweight. On examining the furnaces, it was pointed out that the fires had to be lit with saxaul, and when thus started the naphtha was Tons. supplied in the form of spray from jets giving out upward of three hundred- 14,463 weight an hour, this fuel developing 3,214 twice the heat of coal and giving little 161 smoke. 321 This steamer was intended to ply on 321 the Oxus between Petro Alexandrovsk 933,000 and Kerki. To the former place I had 18,660 4,500 floated in a barge from Charjui, and my 700.000 journey is described in Russian Cen- 800, 000 tral Asia, but Kerki is situated one 200,000 hundred and forty miles from Charjui 20,000 in the direction. Its mud- so,ooo opposite 500 walled fortress, entered by a square 10,000 gateway with fianking towers of brick 800,000 on either hand, stands on a lofty mound of earth, and in the eyes of Asiatics is considered a strong position. The oc- cupation of this Bokhariot stronghold, by consent of the Emir, was a stroke of policy of General Rosenbach at the time of the Panjdeh affair, and the place continues to be the farthest ad- vanced military post of the Russians on the Oxus southward; while, forty miles above Kerki, is Bosagha, near the Afghan frontier and inhabited by Ersari Turkomans. Farther still up the stream by forty miles is the historic Kiif, on the road to India, where Timur and Na- dir Shah crossed with their armies, and up to which point or thereabouts Brit- ish survey and intelligence officers ad- vanced at the time of the delimitation of the Russo-Afghan frontier. Colonel Tcharykow kindly arranged that I should drive, on the morrow after my arrival, to the town of Charjui, and pay a complimentary call on the native Bek or Governor. I was well pleased thus to revisit a place that had interested me exceedingly, six years be- fore, as a frontier outpost whence one looked into the desert toward Merv and longed to go but dared not, there being then no security for a foreigners life. In passing through the High Street one could see that contact with the Rus- sians, and the vicinity of the railway, were producing their effects on the na- tives, since they were less curious and excited at sight of a foreigner; though among themselves they were keeping up rigorously their old - fashioned customs BOKHARA REVISITED. at the citadel, into which I was requested to ride on horseback. The antiquated entrance, with chambers above, is one of the best specimens I remember of a Central Asian portal, and, in time of siege, would present excellent facility for speaking with the enemy in the gate (Psalm cxxvii. 5.), or parleying as did Rab-shakeh with officers on the wall (H. Kings xviii. 27). Outside the citadel, instead of inside, as one would expect, was arranged un- der a shed a very small park of old- fashioned artillery, which I suppose the Charjui natives used to fancy brought them abreast of the times. So vain, in- deed, and so ignorant were they on my former visit that, on my thinking to sur- prise the young bek by describing our 110-ton guns and their enormous pro- jectiles, he replied, Yes, ours are like that too. This young bek, a yonnger brother of the present Emir, and who when he re- ceived me had got himself up in a dandy turban and gorgeous robes, lost his post at his fathers death; and his successor had now been summoned to court to take the place of the Kush-beggis son, whom I had seen when calling on his father. I mentally dubbed him the greatest nin- compoop in the kingdom. But this was not at all the estimate put upon him by his peers, for the new Emir had taken him to his cabinet as Divan-beggi, or Minister of Finance. Colonel Tehary- kow also spoke well of him, saying that he had been a favorite with the people. No small indignation, therefore, had been recently aroused when, the Divan- beggi taking a warrant for the sale of the goods of a man who had embezzled money, the culprit shot the Divan-beggi with two bullets, so that after lingering twenty hours he died, expressing a wish, however, that his murderer might not be put to death. But the Emir con- demned the culprit, and handed him over to the dead mans relatives to do with him as they pleased. This was, first, to break his bones; next, to drag him through the donkey market (some said at the tail of an ass) ; thirdly, to behead him; and, lastly, to cast his body outside the city to the dogs. On my present visit to Charjui I was received in the usual reception-room by the acting bek and his staff, robed in their gaily colored Jehalats and white turbans, and, after speaking of my for- mer visit and partaking of light refresh- ment and sweetmeats, I returned to- ward the outer gateway between lines of soldiers and a native band. Being anxious to revisit the prison, and remembering that it was under a chamber at the gate of the citadel, I stopped opposite the entrance and asked to be allowed to go in. My gain- ing admission six years previously was a great triumph, because they had done their best to keep me from seeing their prisons, and I then discovered at Charjui not only a near approach to the black hole of Calcutta, but men wearing iron collars, through the ends of which was passed a chain to secure them all to- gether, as well as a long beam wherein the prisoners feet were made fast, and which was placed across the centre of the chamber. This beam I could not help thinking was anciently an ordinary piece of fur- niture in prisons, similar, perhaps; to that in which the Philippian jailer thrust the feet of Paul and Silas (Acts xvi. 24), and I was anxious on the pres- ent occasion to take a photograph of it. But the hot and fusty chamber, with- out windows or ventilation, and measur- ing only six paces by four, was too dark and the space too contracted to allow of operating satisfactorily; so, putting a bold face on the matter, I asked that the prisoners might be brought out into the yard, and the beam too, which was accordingly done, for the police - mas- ter looked afraid to refuse. Then I sent to the bazaar for refreshments, after eating which the prisoners were posed and photographed, much to their aston- ishment, but on terms they evidently liked. In addition to the chamber already described, I found, on this visit, another on the opposite side of the citadel gate- way, circular in form and measuring four paces across. In the former place were four prisoners chained by the neck to- gether; in the latter were eight more, one of whom had been confined for a year, others for a longer period, to- gether with a boy of thirteen whose tale 60 BOKHARA REVISITED. was a pitiful one. His father had struck him, it appeared, after which the son, finding his parent asleep, retaliated by dealing him a blow which proved fatal. The young parricide had already been in confinement for nearly a year, but I could not make out what they intended to do with him. On passing the gallows they told me that previous to the advent of the Rus- sians they used to hang from five to six hundred Turkomans a year; but that state of things had now passed away. Among sundry photographs kindly given me by Colonel Tcharykow is one of the gallows at Khiva, not as when I was there, in front of the Khans palace, but in a cemetery, with a felon sup- posed to be suspended. His foot, how- ever, is suspiciously near a mud wall, on which it looks as if the man might be posing for the photographer, but whether it be so or not, the picture il- lustrates the simple character of the Turkistan gallows, consisting simply of two posts and a linteL The distance from Charjui on the western frontier of the Khanate to the capital, by rail, is only seventy-three miles; and when my carriage arrived wherein to drive the nine miles between the station and the town of Bokhara, I recognized it as the cak~che in which, six years previously, I was drawn by two artillery-horses from Kitab to Kar- shi. It was then the only carriage in the kingdom, and was a present from the Emperor Alexander II. to the Emir Muzaffar-ed-din. I recognized, too, one of the postilions, but not the line of country through which we were to drive on a beautiful spring morning, and which presented a very different aspect from the parched appearance of the Khanate as I had last seen it in au- tumn. On arriving before the grim and som- bre-looking walls and towers of Bokhara we were taken to what was formerly the harem or womens apartments of the house assigned to me in 1882, which the Emir had now lent for the Russian Residency, pending the building of a suitable dwelling for the Political Agent near the railway station. The rooms I occupied before, in the principal court, were now inhabited by Colonel Tcharykow, and, in the same court, were the Treasury, guarded by Cossacks, and the apartments of Mr. Basil Oskapovitch Klemm, Secretary- dragoman to the Political Agency at Bok- hara, and his family, with whom were staying Madame Klemms mother and sister, Madame Olga and Mademoiselle Aphekhtine, on a visit from Moscow. There was lodging also on the prem- ises a Russified native officer and inter- preter named Mirbadaleff, whose brother had met me at Petro-Alexandrovsk. To complete the list of visitors must be ad- ded a Spanish gentleman and his wife, of whom mention had been made by the Governor at Baku as coming after me, who passed by the pseudonym of Juan de Chelva, from Yalencia, but who were said to be in reality the brother of Don Carlos of Spain, and his wife, the Duch- ess of Montpensier. An American fellow-traveller, once in- viting me to come and stay at his house, added, We will take you in, you know, boots and all; and in this fashion on my first visit to the Khanate, from the moment of crossing the frontier, I was regarded as the Emirs guest, and sup- plied with lodging, servants, food, and even raiment, and all that was neces- sary for myself and attendants. Something of the same sort was ob- served on this second visit, though I could not at first make out whether I was guest of the Emir or of the Russian Residency. The lunch brought daily to my room was of native preparation, but in the evening Madame Klemm enter- tained us at dinner; and, considering the difficulty of getting variety of food for European palates, and serving it in anything like Western fashion in the midst of a city where foreigners were so few, it was not an undeserved com- plirnent the duchess paid one evening to our hostess in observing, Comment on mange bien, Madame, chez vous! The paucity of Europeans in the town contributed largely toward making pris- oners of the ladies of the Residency; for at first their appearance in the ba- zaar, unveiled, drew together a crowd to admire or to stare as the case might be, and this was intensified when Mademoi- selle Aphekhtine appeared on horseback with a ladys saddle. BOKHARA REVISITED. 61 Accustomed, like all Muhammadans, to degrade their own wives into drudges or toys, it seemed to the natives a bold thing for women thus to appear in pub- lic; and that these sentiments were not those of the vulgar only crept out on the day of the opening railway fete, when the Residency was decked out with flags and carpets, and the nobles of Bokhara were invited to dine with Russian offi- cers and their wives, perceiving which, one of the Bokhariots high in dignity remarked that he thought the Russian ladies were not kept sufficiently in sub- iectiou! On the birth of Madame Klemms first baby there was much rejoicing and pass- ing of compliments and presents, and the young boy was forthwith dubbed a be/c, in honor of having been born in Bokhara the Noble; but I could not gather that, even with the best of Rus- sian desires to that end, there could be maintained anything like family inter- course or familiarity between Muscov- ite and Bokhariot ladies, so great was the ignorance of the latter, and so little did they understand each others cus- toms; added to which the natives were intensely suspicious that beneath every proffered kindness there lay concealed a snare. To me these indications of suspicion were not new, for so rampant were they at the time of my previous visit that our deeds and words, and taking of notes especially, we~re reported to the Emir; and, to add to the joke, some of my re- tainers one day heard two of the spies reading over what they intended to re- port. On this second visit I was less tightly in their grasp, but I recognized one of our old spies among three native offi- cials, who remained on the premises nominally, and to a considerable extent really, to look after the Emirs guests, but also, of course, to espy. On the day after our arrival, the Kush-beggi, or Prime Minister, sent a Karaul-beggi to show me the bazaar, where things were going on as of old. There sat the mender of broken china pursuing his calling with bow, drill, and spittle; and the baker flattening out his round cake of dough, placing it on a pillow, and then dabbing it against the side of the earthen oven, heated like a fiery furnace, to be roasted in a few minutes and come forth as daily bread, eaten new, and which costs only six pul, or the equivalent of a halfpenny. For those who longed after flesh, six small pieces of meat were being fixed in the cookshops on a skewer, roasted over the tiniest of fires in a brazier, and sold for one pul; but meat is not with everybody in Bokhara an article of ev- eryday consumption. Another feature common to Bokhara with other towns of Russian Turkistan, to be seen generally in the Potters Street, was the potter at work with his wheel, fashioning vases, pots, and ewers, so absolutely alike, for rich and poor, as to suggest that the least variation, from generation to generation, would be counted as heresy. From the bazaar the Karaul-beggi took me to the Kalan Minaret, said to have been built by the Arabs in the ninth century; and to the Great Mosque adjoining, out of which, before, I had been hurried, in fear lest I should be set upon as an unbeliever, whereas now I was allowed to examine everything at leisure, and even to photograph the huh- rab, or sanctuary toward which Muham- madans pray, and the Salelcaichana or place for drinking-water. Had I brought a camera six years before, its use would undoubtedly have been forbidden, but now they had seen some of the Russians practising their black art, which had to some extent softened prejudice, so that when in the mosque one of the natives was about to object, the Karaul-beggi overruled that I should be allowed to proceed. On another day, however, one old simple- ton, and a great obstructionist on my first visit, after seeing me take a photo- graph of a tomb in the cemetery, thought the proceeding so mysterious and un- canny that he declared next day it had caused him a sleepless night. I photographed this place of sepul- ture because the cemeteries of Bokhara and Khiva give the best illustration that I have seen how those possessed of devils (which in Bokhara would mean the insane) had their dwellings in the tombs (Matthew viii. 28). These tombs are built simply of clay, the ends pre 62 BOKHARA REVISITED. senting the form of a triangle with the sides bent out. Beneath this the corpse is laid, often on the surface of the ground, divested of all clothing, except a turban, and the tomb plastered up. In course of time, however, the heat of summer causes the clay to crack, and the ends being fallen, disclose dry bones and skulls within, but form a place wherein friendless maniacs, turned loose to provide for themselves (as I heard they sometimes were in Bokhara), might easily take refuge. I had heard, on my previous visit, of the barbarous manner in which the insane were kept and treated, being beaten while prayers were read over from the Koran, and then picketed, like horses, to posts in the yard of a mullah called the Ishan; but I did not then succeed in witnessing it. This house of the Ishan, therefore, was one of the places I asked now to be taken to see. It was an ordinary native dwelling, presided over by a sort of mullah-doctor, who was treating his insane patients as possessed of the devil, and was deal- ing largely in charms for all comers, consisting of extracts from the Koran, placed in receptacles, to be worn on the afflicted part of the body. He sat in his room near a window, and out- side was a little crowd of ignorant women, many of them said to be child- less, who had come to consult this man in their troubles, and pay for his nos- trums. This was sad enough, but the sight of the maniacs was truly pitiable; in the case of one man especially, Akhmet Kul, from Karshi, who had been there six months, and was chained by the ankles, but who kept violently jumping and dancing about. Unlike some of the others, when I gave him money or sweets he threw them into the air, and appeared decidedly combative. Near him, chained to the wall, was a youth who had been there ten days only. What is the matter with him ~ I asked. Oh ! said they, he has a devil, whereupon I took from his legs the chains, which they allowed me to purchase. Passing through a doorway I found myself in a stable where was a donkey, and, as little cared for, seemingly, two maniacs, one of whom was jumping and crying, the situation looking indescrib- ably miserable, and filthily dirty. Sit- ting outside in the sun, but chained, was an Afghan, and another man of un- known nationality, who was evidently vain of his appearance, for, before a small looking-glass, he was continually combing his long and plentiful hair and beard. There were others on a loft who had been there three months, but some only fifteen days, but in all cases their stay was intended to be temporary. Of course I wanted to photograph this sad and strange, but instructive, scene, for it connected itself in my mind with further characteristics of those we read of as possessed of devils. I ac- cordingly began to put up my appa- ratus, the Ishan not expressing any objection. Some of his subordinates, however, did not like it, and, too tim- id to stop me, and thinking perhaps to escape responsibility themselves, let loose the Karshi maniac, who came dancing before the camera, crying out, as interpreted to me, We dont want to be photographed, we dont want to be photographed, whereupon I de- sisted, and, by permission, returned a few days afterward to accomplish my purpose. On this second occasion there were ten patients, and Akhmet Kul, a man of middle age, but who told me he was three years old, made no objection to having his portrait taken, showing the charm he wore on his shoulder, which seemed to be the only thing they were applying for his recovery. Whether he had been beaten I have no record; some were so treated, and some, they said, beat themselves. On turning my camera in the direc- tion of the little crowd of women seek- ing the Ishans assistance, all of whom were dressed for promenade and thickly veiled, looking like walking bundles of clothing rather than human beings, they beat a speedy retreat; but my disap- pointment was not irreparable since I obtained otherwise photographs of na- tive women, in one case seemingly at an afternoon tea-party, and smoking the chilim or native pipe. Judging from this and other pictures, the Turkistan women are not nearly so pretty as the Jewesses living among them. BOKHARA REVISITED. 63 I paid a third visit to the Ishans house on my last Sunday in Bokhara, thinking to give the poor creatures a dinner of pilau, which when announced to the old obstructionist, he said, rightly or wrongly, the needed quantity of pilau could not be had in the bazaar at so short a notice. Very well, I said, then we will give them bread and sweets, as before; which accordingly was done, much to the satisfaction of the patients; and the Ishan gave me, I suppose as a compliment, one of his charms or slips of writing. On another day in Bokhara, accom- panied by one of the Emirs officials, I revisited the Jews synagogue, anxious to thoroughly overhaul a number of manuscripts and disused rolls of the law which, six years before, were stowed away in dust and disorder on a loft. But the spirit of church restoration had been abroad; the loft was removed, and the old rolls were now orderly arranged in niches in the walls and in cupboards. On asking for the most ancient, a Torah, or copy of the Pentateuch, was shown, and said to have been given by Abdurrahman Kalan, the Israelite pat- ron or founder of the synagogue, four or five hundred years ago. Just before my previous visit a woman in Bokhara had parted with a manuscript I met at Moscow, on its way to London, and which, when sold to the British Mu- seum, turned out to be of importance both to textual criticism as well as to illustration of the art of Jewish illumi- nationto be pronounced, in fact, the most richly illuminated Hebrew manu- script of the Old Testament extant. On applying a few tests on this sec- ond visit to the form of certain letters, I could not make out that this oldest copy in the synagogue would be re- garded by an expert as very ancient, or perhaps remarkable, though the writ- ing was larger than usual and carefully penned. On the next morning at sunrise I was taken again to the synagogue to wit- ness a circumcision. Many men were assembled, wearing phylacteries and prayer - shawls or scarfs, called locally sisid, but in Hebrew talith, some of which were ornamented with strips of silver and gold. The congregation sat on the ground, but sprang to their feet at the repetition of the Kodesh, or Holy, Holy, Holy! and from time to time they turned toward Jerusalem. After the usual daily morning prayers, which last for about three-quarters of an hour, two chairs were brought into the midst of the congregation near a stone lectern, said to be four hundred years old and covered with cloths of silk. The officiating rabbi or priest then took in his hand a silver rod, called the rod of Elijah, and the child was brought in by the father amid shouting and rec- itation of prayers by the congregation. A prayer was said by the rabbi, after which the infant, held by two aged men, was circumcised according to the law. In Bokhara the Jews still labor under many restrictions. They may not wear a garment of silk, for instance, with a belt and a turban, but are compelled to wear a cotton ichalat and black calico cap, and to be girded only with a piece of string. Again, they may not ride a horse in the city, and in the fields are made to dismount from an ass before a mounted Muhammadan, who, if he choose, may smite a Jew, but the Jew must not retaliate. The boys, many of whom, like their mothers, were extremely good-looking, at first were terrified at me if only I patted them on the head. Meanwhile they showed themselves well disposed toward me, some of them remembering my former visit, especially one boy to whom I had given a Hebrew New Tes- tament. Moreover, true to their char- acter, the Jews were not above turn- ing a penny where possible. The rabbi sold me a small manuscript roll of the Book of Esther, and coins and precious stones were brought for my selection, as also old embroidery, some of the last of which I was tempted to purchase and now value highly. I had thought to persist in asking to be taken to Baha-ud-din, the tomb of the local patron Muhammadan saint out- side the city. My guides had put me off from seeing it six years before, and seemed to place obstacles in my way now, upon hearing which a Jew advised me to desist, saying that there were at the shrine several fanatics, and that 64 BOKHARA REVISITED. though the Emirs men might for the moment drive them into holes and corners for the hour of my visit, yet that they were likely enough in their bigotry to set upon me as an infidel. Accordingly, to this disinterested advice I listened, remembering that it was at Baha-ud-din a man tried to kill that admirable writer on Russian Turkistan, the late Mr. Eugene Schuyler. I expressed a strong desire to see also the Zindan, or city prison of Bokhara, which they asked me not to photograph. It was a wretched place, of which they might well be ashamed, consisting of two rooms, not too large for four per- sons, but into which they had crammed forty-seven. The first room was ten paces long, the ceiling almost within reach, and containing twenty-five pris- oners, one poor fellow crying because sick, and apparently broken - hearted. The second chamber was six paces square, without boards or ceiling, the domed roof opening to the sky and con- taining twenty-two prisoners, of whom six were Persians. There was no furniture in the rooms, unless, perhaps, a piece or two of mat- ting on the bare earth, a water-vessel, and the most wretched sanitary ar- rangements. They said the man long- est there had been imprisoned eigh- teen months; and it is proper to remember that imprisonment, as such, for a term of years for instance, is not a recognized form of punishment in Bokhara; but men are put in prison, rather, until their cases can be dealt with and disposed of in a summary fashion, which may be anything be- tween a thrashing and being put to death. Joseph, my servant, had brought an armful of bread, which I would not en- trust to the keepers, but distributed myself, and on going again on a subse- quent day for a similar purpose I per- ceived in the centre of the chamber open to the sky, a hole covered over with earth and sticks, which I learned was the entrance to the bottle-shaped dungeon into which prisoners could be lowered by cords. Here it was, I make no doubt, that the English Colonel Stoddart at first was placed by Nasr-IJllah, the present Emirs grandfather, and afterward re- moved to another prison within the pal- ace, where he and Captain Conolly were said to have been persecuted by sheep- ticks; but however that may be, I had heard from Colonel Teharykow that, be- fore he came to the Residency, it was hinted to the new Emir that such abom- inations could not be allowed in a city inhabited by a representative of the Czar, in deference to which desire of his friends, the Russians, the Emir had cov- ered up the underground dungeon, and released or otherwise disposed of more than a hundred prisoners confined there- in at the death of his father. Another place I thought it might be a charity to visit was the lepers quarter, which before, at Karshi, they refused to allow me to see; nor did I subsequent- ly get more than a passing glimpse of it, and that by stealth, at Bokhara. I said, therefore, now, that I wished to give a dinner to the lunatics3 the pris- oners, and the lepers; and we rode out to a village where were reported to be two hundred persons, or houses of the infected. They were not congregated in any one building, so that all we could do was to gather a few together, ask for their head man, and give him some money to distribute. I heard of no hospital of any kind in Bokhara, though Dr. Heyfelder, on the railway staff of General Annenkoff, when resi- dent in the city, had given the natives much medical assistance, and made many friends thereby. It is not customary in Bokhara that visitors be admitted to the presence of the Emir until they have remained in the city a few days, at least three it was said on my former visit, during which time they would not let me, at Shahr-i- Sabz, go off the premises. On the pres- ent occasion the staying within was not exacted, but on the fifth day after my arrival my Spanish fellow-guest and I were to be presented to the Emir, who was staying in his summer palace at Shirbadan, a few miles out of the city. His Highness sent repeated invita- tions to Mr. Klemm, desiring that he also would come. Accordingly, we drove in a cakehe through the streets, preceded by a numerous cavalcade of outriders and servants, and after them, BOKHARA REVISITED. 65 to do honor to the occasion, the Minis- ter of Finance, lately Bek of Charjui. Added to this the people along the route were en fete, keeping the Mu- haminadan New Year, the festivities of which had been postponed on account of the Emirs absence in March. As we approached Shirbadan the crowds in- creased, for they were expecting to scramble for presents, besides which soldiers were drawn up to salute. The palace, with fairly good entrance, approached by four steps from the court and covered with an awning sup- ported by two slender wooden columns, stands in a garden of one hundred acres, and the reception-hall, with its pool of water in front, is ornamented on the exterior with arabesque painting in no way remarkable. But it was otherwise with the ceiling within, which had been painted only a year before, and was, I think, the prettiest work of art we saw in Bokhara. The room had glazed win- dows, testifying to contact with Russia, as did also the three chairs placed for the visitors, and a fourth occupied by the Emir, but I remember no other fur- niture in the room, which was richly car- peted. I had been requested not to ask per- mission to take His Highnesss portrait, though I managed otherwise to secure his photograph in full dress, wearing a richly embroidered velvet Ichalat and trousers, with a sword and a highly or- namented turban, and attended by one of his ministers. On the present oc- casion he was less gorgeously dressed, and displayed the insignia of four or five Russian and Bokhariot orders. It was pleasant for us that Mr. Klemm could speak to the Emir directly in Per- sian and thus kindly act as interpreter. After sundry remarks of a formal char- acter, and passing of compliments, we attempted to interest him with the re- cital of some of our travels. But geog- raphy, if existent at all, occupies a poor place in the Muhammadan curriculum, and it was somewhat difficult to find subjects of conversation of mutual inter- est. I thought the present Emir, how- ever, more intelligent than his father, and after a few more speeches he invit- ed us to walk in his flower-garden, and take refreshment in an adjoining m. This tea-room, as it was called, was said to be fifty years old. It was less brilliant than the one we left, and here was spread for us the usual dostarichan of fruits and sweets and pilau, of which they pressed us hard to eat abundant ly. Then we adjourned to the gardens, in no way beautiful to an English eye, after which we returned. I did not see much, this time, of the commercial affairs of Bokhara. The wholesale merchants carry on their bus- iness in caravansaries, or warehouses, built in form of a hollow square, some of which we visited, as, for instance, the Russian caravansary, which had three stories. In the lowest stand the horses and carts and camels and their attend- ants, while higher, on a platform run- ning round the court, and in alcoves or chambers giving thereon, are stored bales of goods and charpoys, or corded bedsteads, upon which to recline; while on the top story are dwelling-places for the Russian merchants or their agents, among whom, in the Nadejda caravan- sary, I found a man of British descent, named Jackson, who spoke English and appeared very much of a stranger in a strange land. The same remark was true of all at the Residency, but it was interest- ing to see how important an influence was there established, and how well the Resident and his Secretary appeared suited to their posts, and that too with- out a very large outlay to the Russian Government. The Colonel struck me as an able diplomatist, and the Sec- retary as thoroughly industrious and better acquainted than most Russians I met with Oriental languages. Hence the people, whether Jews or natives, could come with their grievances, which they frequently did, hoping that the Russians would gain them redress. Slaves sometimes came asking to be freed, and some of the discontented oc- casionally were bold enough to ask that the Czar would take possession of the country. It was not the policy of the Resident, however, to interfere more than is neces- sary in the domestic affairs of the Khan- ate, except when they related to Rus- sian subjects; and as for annexing the Khanate, why, as one asked of me, 66 BOKHARA REVISITED. should they do that? To administer the country in Muscovite fashion would cost a great deal more than the taxes would pay for, and if the Russians want anything done, they have simply to nod to the Emir and he does it. They are much too wise, therefore, to annex Bok- hara, but if need arises it can of course be done at any moment. During our stay at Bokliara I went sometimes for a drive with Mr. Mirba- daleff, or for a ride with him and Made- moiselle Aphekhtine, which gave oppor- tunities for seeing the town and noticing the curious customs of its narrow, old- fashioned streets. The Rhigistan ap- peared in no way altered since my visit there to the palace; and the steps around the pools, such as that of the Liabe house with its surrounding tea-shops, were covered as usual with loungers discuss- ing the news, and water-carriers filling their skin bottles. Going for the sake of curiosity to one of the bath-houses it was found similar to those of Constantinople, but not so clean. I visited some of the Medresses, or Colleges, of which that of the Divan- beggi, with its pool in front and shaded by mulberry-trees a century old, is one of the best. A smaller one, called Chu- chugoim, near the Residency, was in- habited by thirteen students only. One had been there three years, and intended to stay much longer, but was so poor as to be thankful for alms, which my ser- vant asked on his behalf, saying that the scholar could not beg. I gave, there- fore, like a good Mussulman for the nonce, and in accordance with the teach- ing of the Koran, which prescribes giv- ing not only to him who asks~~ but to him who is ashamed to ask a very good maxim for countries where primitive manners obtain and begging has not become a trade. One cannot say much for the archi- tectural remains of Bokhara the No- ble. In its palmy days the Khanate had a second capital in Samarkand, and there it is the native points for specimens of what were once the build- ings of his country, among which none is more interesting than the Gur Emir, or Mausoleum of Tamerlane. I could not do otherwise than revisit this interesting relic, and found it en- closed by a low wall of open brick-work. The structure is too far gone for an at- tempt at restoration to anything like its original beauty; but it was satis- factory on entering to find the interior cleaned, its marbles polished, and the whole kept in better condition than on my first visit. Truly, the times are changed, and the savage conqueror who vanquished half of Asia, and made pyramids of the skulls of his foes, is now indebted to their chil- dren for the garnishing of his sepulchre! AT NOON. By G. Santayana. WHAT god will choose me from this laboring nation To worship him afar, with inward gladness, At sunset and at sunrise, in some Persian Garden of roses, Or under the full moon, in rapturous silence, Charmed by the trickling fountain, and the moaning Of the death-hallowed cypress and the myrtle Hallowed by Venus? O for a chamber in an eastern tower, Spacious and empty, roofed in odorous cedar, A silken soft divan, a woven carpet, Rich, many-colored, A jug that, poised on her firm head, a negress Fetched from the well, a window to the ocean, Lest of the stormy world too deep seclusion Make me forgetful! Thence I might watch the vessel-bearing waters Beat the slow pulses of the life eternal, That bring of natures universal travail Infinite echoes. And there at even I might stand and listen To thrum of distant lutes and dying voices Chanting the ditty an Arabian captive Sang to Darius. So would I dream a while, and ease a little The soul long stifled and the straitened spirit, Tasting new pleasures in a far-off country Sacred to beauty.

AT NOON. By G. Santayana. WHAT god will choose me from this laboring nation To worship him afar, with inward gladness, At sunset and at sunrise, in some Persian Garden of roses, Or under the full moon, in rapturous silence, Charmed by the trickling fountain, and the moaning Of the death-hallowed cypress and the myrtle Hallowed by Venus? O for a chamber in an eastern tower, Spacious and empty, roofed in odorous cedar, A silken soft divan, a woven carpet, Rich, many-colored, A jug that, poised on her firm head, a negress Fetched from the well, a window to the ocean, Lest of the stormy world too deep seclusion Make me forgetful! Thence I might watch the vessel-bearing waters Beat the slow pulses of the life eternal, That bring of natures universal travail Infinite echoes. And there at even I might stand and listen To thrum of distant lutes and dying voices Chanting the ditty an Arabian captive Sang to Darius. So would I dream a while, and ease a little The soul long stifled and the straitened spirit, Tasting new pleasures in a far-off country Sacred to beauty. SOME UNPUBLISHED CORRESPONDENCE OF WASH INGTON ALLSTON. WASHINGTON ALL5TON was an altogether unique figure among the earlier Ameri- can painters, not only by the character of his performance, but by the high in- tellectual and imaginative quality which he brought to the study of his art. A particularly deep and strong admira- tion of him, of the kind which is com- monly found to have its root in a vigor- ous and vital individuality, has long prevailed among those of an earlier generation who knew him; and to any- one who looks into even the biograph- ical material already accessible concern- ing him, this is easily explicable. His will be found to be, in other respects as well as in his relations to his art, a most interesting personality, in a time and surroundings in which these were not frequent. Among the chapters in recent biography which will remain long in their readers memory, are those in Mr. Adamss Life of Richard H. Dana, Jr., which describe Allstons death, and incidentally give a glimpse of his ideals, methods, and but par- tially fulfilled accomplishment. A life of him by his nephew, Jared B. Flagg, soon to be published, will increase the means both for this estimate and for the definition of his stature and place among his contemporaries. The outer facts of his life, in so far as they need to be recalled for readers un- familiar with them, are these: He was born at Waccamaw, S. C., November 5, 1779, of mixed English and Huguenot descent; showed an early liking and tal- ent for painting ; and when sent to New- port to prepare for Harvard under a tutor, met there Malbone, the miniature painter (whose pupil he afterward be- came), and others who confirmed his inclinations. He was graduated at Harvard in 1800; and a year later, having then finally determined to be a painter, he went to England with Mal- bone, studied as a pupil of the Royal Academy (of which West, who be- friended him, was then president), and spent the next seven or eight y ears there and in France and a , studying and painting. He returned to Boston in 1809, married a sister of William El- lery Channing, went back to Europe for another eight years stay, and in 1818 (his wife having died several years before in London) returned per- manently to America. Just after his departure from London he was elected an associate of the Royal Academy. Till 1830 he lived in Boston; in that year he married again (a sister of Rich- ard H. Dana, Sr.) and removed to Cam- N From Michael Setting the Watch. [Paradise Lost, Book IV.] (From a tracing in chalk on gauze, made by Aliston from a composition afterward destroyed.)

SOME UNPUBLISHED CORRESPONDENCE OF WASH INGTON ALLSTON. WASHINGTON ALL5TON was an altogether unique figure among the earlier Ameri- can painters, not only by the character of his performance, but by the high in- tellectual and imaginative quality which he brought to the study of his art. A particularly deep and strong admira- tion of him, of the kind which is com- monly found to have its root in a vigor- ous and vital individuality, has long prevailed among those of an earlier generation who knew him; and to any- one who looks into even the biograph- ical material already accessible concern- ing him, this is easily explicable. His will be found to be, in other respects as well as in his relations to his art, a most interesting personality, in a time and surroundings in which these were not frequent. Among the chapters in recent biography which will remain long in their readers memory, are those in Mr. Adamss Life of Richard H. Dana, Jr., which describe Allstons death, and incidentally give a glimpse of his ideals, methods, and but par- tially fulfilled accomplishment. A life of him by his nephew, Jared B. Flagg, soon to be published, will increase the means both for this estimate and for the definition of his stature and place among his contemporaries. The outer facts of his life, in so far as they need to be recalled for readers un- familiar with them, are these: He was born at Waccamaw, S. C., November 5, 1779, of mixed English and Huguenot descent; showed an early liking and tal- ent for painting ; and when sent to New- port to prepare for Harvard under a tutor, met there Malbone, the miniature painter (whose pupil he afterward be- came), and others who confirmed his inclinations. He was graduated at Harvard in 1800; and a year later, having then finally determined to be a painter, he went to England with Mal- bone, studied as a pupil of the Royal Academy (of which West, who be- friended him, was then president), and spent the next seven or eight y ears there and in France and a , studying and painting. He returned to Boston in 1809, married a sister of William El- lery Channing, went back to Europe for another eight years stay, and in 1818 (his wife having died several years before in London) returned per- manently to America. Just after his departure from London he was elected an associate of the Royal Academy. Till 1830 he lived in Boston; in that year he married again (a sister of Rich- ard H. Dana, Sr.) and removed to Cam- N From Michael Setting the Watch. [Paradise Lost, Book IV.] (From a tracing in chalk on gauze, made by Aliston from a composition afterward destroyed.) CORRESPONDENCE OF WASHINGTON ALLS TON. 69 bridgeport. During all these years his artistic activity was continuous, but varied; greatest in London and in Rome, less productive after his return to Boston; in his later years, in Cam- bridgeport, being chiefly restricted to a few great pictures, notably Belshazzars Feast. Leaving this picture still un- finished after years of work upon it, he died suddenly on July 9, 1843. Among his friends, with many of whom his correspondence was constant during many years, were S. T. Cole- ridge, Benjamin West, C. R. Leslie, Sir George Beaumont, Sir Thomas Law- rence, William Collins, Wordsworth, and many more in England; and among Americans, Channing, Dana, Irving, Gu- han C. Verplanck, Gilbert Stuart, Van- derlyn, S. F. B. Morse, Greenough, Sul- ly, Edward Everett, and, notwithstand- ing the retirement of his last years, many of the most prominent men of his time. From the letters, reminiscences, and other unpublished papers relating to Aliston, and to be included in his biog- raphy, a few extracts are here given. The most interesting portion of his life, in the light it throws upon his character, will probably always be that after his permanent return to America, when his powers were to a great degree recog- nized, but when he had entered on a phase very different from his prolific activity in Londonconcentrated upon a few large ideas and ambitions, living retired, contemplative, and absorbed with a few of the works which he hoped would be his masterpieces. So much has been written of him in this later aspect, that one is likely to forget how successful had been his part in a very active world, and how well-known and well-liked a figure he had been in Lon- don. Among the letters to and from him many glimpses may be had of his years there; but from this correspond- ence only one or two passages are taken. One, from a letter to a friend, Fraser, a young artist in Charleston written in a thoroughly boyish spirit, and with opinions which he no doubt afterward revised on some of the mag- nates of English artdates from his ar- rivaL LONDoN, August 25, 1801. Were it in my power, I would cer- tainly make an excuse for having so long delayed writing to you; but, as I have none to make, I shall throw myself on that candor which my short acquain- tance with you has encouraged me to expect. You have no doubt anticipated much, and will, I apprehend, be not a little disappointed at the account of what I have seen. I landed in this country big with anticipation of every species of grand- eur. No city, thought I then, to be compared with London, no people with its inhabitants. But I have found Lon- don but a city, and its inhabitants like the rest of the world, much in them to admire, more to despise, and still more to abhor. As to the country, it is beyond my expectation, beautiful and picturesque; and the appearance of the people, that of health and contentment; in short, every leaf seemed to embody a senti- ment and every cottage to contain a Ve- nus. But when I arrived in London, what a contrast! Figure to yourself the extremes of misery and splendor, and you will have a better idea of it than I can give you. Scarcely a luxury but you may command here ; and scarce- ly a scene of wretchedness but you may witness at the corner of every street. Indeed, the whole city appears to be composed of princes and beggars. I had no idea before of pride unaccom- panied by some kind of merit. But here no one has pride without fortune. Indeed, the most respectable among the middle ranks appear to have no conse- quence except in boasting of the ac- quaintance of someone in rank; and among the greater part, so shameful is their venality, they will condescend to flatter the most infamous for a pen- ny. It is said in their defence that every man must live, and in so populous a country one must not be scrupulous about the means. But I can conceive of no necessity that should induce a man to degrade himself before those with whom he cannot but feel an equality, and whom he has too frequently occa- sion to despise. But it is time to con- clude with this, for I know you must be 70 CORRESPONDENcE OP WASHINGTON ALLSTON. impatient to read something about the that is a subordinate excellence. In- arts. deed, were it not, the English artists You will no doubt be surprised that might well stand in competition with among the many painters in London I many of the ancient masters. You have should rank Mr. West as first. I must seen a print from Northeotes Arthur. own I myself was not a little surprised The original, I must own, is a beautiful to find him such. I left America thing. But Opie has painted the same strongly prejudiced against him; and subject, and I assure you the two pict- indeed I even now think with good rca- ures will not bear a comparison. You son, for those pictures from which I had may think I exaggerate when I say the seen prints would do no credit to a very head of Arthur is the divinest thing I inferior artist, much less to one of his ever beheld. But I assure you it is no reputation. But when I saw his gallery less. His Hubert I do not like, it is not and the innumerable excellences which equal to Northcotes. But his two vil- it contained, I pronounced him one of lains are such as the devil nourishes in the greatest men in the world. I have the cradle. They have murder written looked upon his understanding with in- on every feature; and I cannot but difference, and his imagination with con- think that Opie, like Salvator Rosa, tempt; but I have now reason to sup- must have lived among banditti to have pose them both vigorous in the highest so admirably portrayed them. degree. No fancy could have better Are these all? you will ask. All conceived, and no pencil more happily indeed, I assure you, that are worth embodied, the visions of sublimity than mentioning. I had forgot, however, the he has in his inimitable picture from portrait painters. The two first are Revelation. Its subject is the opening Lawrence and Sir William Beechy, but of the seven seals, and a more sublime even Lawrence cannot paint so well as and awful picture I never beheld. It is Stuart; and as for the rest they are the impossible to conceive anything more damnedest stupid wretches that ever terrible than death on the white horse, disgraced a profession. But I do not and I am certain no painter has exceeded include the miniature painters; that is Mr. West in the fury, horror, and de- a line I am but little acquainted with, spair which he has represented in the therefore I am not able to judge. As surrounding figures. I could mention far, however, as my judgment extends I many others of similar merit, but were can pronounce Mr. Malbone not inferior I particular on each I should not only to the best among them. He showed a weary you but write myself asleep. likeness he painted of me to Mr. West, Of Fuseli I shall speak hereafter. I who complimented him very highly. I have seen but few of his pictures, there- have seldom seen, said he, a miniature fore cannot so well judge at present. that pleased me more. I would men- They are, however, sufficient to entitle tion also some compliments which he him to immortality. Indeed, his Ham- paid me, but I should blush to repeat let alone, were it not for the picture I what I cannot think I deserve. have just mentioned, would undoubtedly Your friend White I like very much. place him in the first seat among the He has a spice of literature about him English artists. Another picture also which makes him not the less agreeable of his that I admire much represents to me, who am about (mirabile dictu) to Sin Separating Death and Satan. The publish a book. By the by, how long of attitude Satan is beyond improve- do you suppose Trumbull was about his ment sublime, and the others are such Gibraltar? It is truly a charming as none but Fuseli could have painted, picture; but he was a whole year about In short, it is the only picture I ever it, therefore it ought to have been bet- saw that was worthy of being joined ter. I have no idea of a painters labor- with the name of Milton. ing up to fame. When he ceases to ob- Opie comes next in rank; as a bold tam reputation without it, he becomes and determinate delineator of character a mechanic. Trumbull is no portrait he has not a superior. He is surpassed, painter. By this picture alone he has however, by Northcote in effect. But gained credit. But it is indeed credit CORRESPONDENCE OP WASHINGTON ALLSTOAT. 11 purchased at a most exorbitant inter- est. I have lately painted several pict- ures; but am now about one that will far surpass anything I have done be- fore. The subject is from the passage of Scripture, And Christ looked upon Peter. It contains twenty figures, which are about two feet in height, on the whole making the best composition I ever attempted. The two principal groups are Christ between two sol- diers, who are about to bear him away, the high priests, etc., and Peter sur- rounded by his accusers. The other groups are composed of spectators, variously affected, men, women, and children. Next week I shall apply for admis- sion into the Academy. The very first figure that I drew from plaster, Mr. West said, would admit me. It was from the Gladiator. He was aston- ished when I told him it was my first, and .paid a compliment (too pretty to be repeated) to the correctness of my eye. He also observed that I not only pre- served the form, but, what few artists think of, the expression of my subject. You see by this account that I am not very modest. Indeed I despise the af- fectation of it. But my principal mo- tive in being thus particular is to en- courage you, by proving that much greater men than either you or I were once no better than ourselves. And could I convince you, by flattering my- self, of the dignity of your powers, I would boast as much again. Believe me, sir, it is no proof of vanity that a man should suppose himself adequate to more than he has already performed. Confidence is the soul of genius. Great talents to a timid mind are of as little value to the owner as gold to a miser, who is afraid to use it. Great men rise but by their own exertions. It is the fools and the childs pusillanimity alone that are boosted up to fame. How are we to learn our own powers without a trial? Accident will, indeed, sometimes discover them; but are we all to wait for accident? No, sir; the principle of self-love was implanted in us to excite emulation, and he violates a law of nat- ure who yields to despair without a previous trial of his powers. A little seasonable vanity is the best friend we can have. Not that silly conceit founded on adventitious advantages, which exalts us but in our own imagination. But I mean the confidence which arises from a determination to excel, and is nour- ished by a hope of future greatness. The great Buffon thought there were but three geniuses in the worldtwo besides himself. And what was the con- sequence? His application was inde- fatigable. He was a genius and ought to surpass other men. He did surpass them. Ca~sar, giving an account of his conquest, said Veni, vidi, vici. No man, perhaps, had so great an opinion of his own strength, and no man was capable of more. When a man is thus confident he is not to be discouraged by difficulties. But his exertions rather strengthen as they increase. It was a saying of Alcibiades, and I believe a very just one, that When souls of a certain order did not perform all they wished, it was because they had not courage to attempt all they could. Why, then, my friend, should you despair? You have talents; cultivate themand it is not impossible that the name of Fraser may one daly be as cele- brated as those of Raphael and Michael Angelo. Resolve to shine, and, believe me, the little crosses of to-day will van- ish before the more substantial joys of to-morrow. In the meantime let me advise you to beware of love. Love and painting are two opposite elements; you cannot live in both at the same time. Be wise in time, and let it not be said, when future biographers shall record your life, that Mr. Fraser promised much, his genius gave symptoms of expansion beyond mortality, but love, alas! un- timely love had set a seal upon his fame. His soul, which was just about to grasp a world, is now imprisoned within the bosom of a girL Where now are those mighty schemes which were to elevate him to the summit of fame? Where are those characters which were to inscribe the name of Fraser on the front of time? Alas! a womans tears have washed them from his memory. No longer is he anxious to be distinguished from the 72 CORRESPONDENcE OF WASHINGTON ALLSTON. crowd; no longer does the spirit of Michael Angelo point the way to heaven ; he is blessed with a smile from his mistress, his ambition is con- tented; he seeks no other heaven than the bed of roses on her bosom. No, Fraser, let this not be said of you. Love in its place I revere; but it is not at all times to be indulged. There are many beautiful girls in Charleston, but Raphael and Michael Angelo are still more beautiful than they. Believe me, with sincerity, Your friend, WASHINGTON ALLsToN. The first of the two following letters from Coleridge, written on a journey to Italy, shows how early one of Allstons strongest friendships had grown to an intimacy. The second, nine years later, was written just after Mrs. Allstons death. My DEAR ALL5TON: No want of af- fection has occasioned my silence. Day after day I expected Mr. Wallis. Ben- venati received me with almost insulting coldness, not even asking me to sit down, neither could I, by any inquiry, find that he ever returned my call; and even in answer to a very polite note in- quiring for letters, sent a verbal mes- sage that there was one, and I might call for it. However, within the last seven or eight days, he has called and made his amende honorable; he says he forgot the name of my inn, and called at two or three in vain. Whoo! I did not tell him that within five days I sent him a note in which the inn was mentioned, and that he sent me a message in consequence, and yet never called for ten days afterward. How- ever, yester evening the truth came out. He had been bored by letters of recom- mendation, and, till he received a letter from Mr. Richardson, looked upon me as a borewhich, however, he might and ought to have got rid of in a more gentlemanly manner. Nothing more was necessary than the day after my arrival to have sent his card by his ser- vant. But I forgive him from my heart. It should, however, be a lesson to Mr. Wallis, to whom, and for whom, he gives letters of introduction. I have been dangerously ill for the last fortnight, and unwelLenough, heav- en knows, previously; but about ten days ago, on rising from my bed, I had a manifest stroke of palsy along my right side and right arm ; my head felt like another mans head, so dead was it, that I seemed to know it only by my left hand and a strange sense of numb- ness. Every attempt to move was ac- companied by involuntary and terrific screams. Enough of it, continual vexa- tions and preyings upon the spirit. I gave life to my children, and they have repeatedly given it to me, for, by the Maker of all things, but for them I would try my chance. But they pluck out the wing-feathers from the mind. I have not entirely recovered the sense of my side or hand, but have recovered the use. I am troubled by local and partial fevers. This day, at noon, we set off from Leghorn; all passage through the Italian states and Germany is little other than impossible for an Englishman, and heaven knows whether Leghorn may not be blockaded. How- ever, we go hither, and shall go to Eng- land in an American ship. My dear Allston, somewhat from increasing age, but more from calamity and intense, painful affections, my heart is not open to more than kind, good wishes in general. To you, and you alone, since I have lert England, I have felt drawn, and had I not known the Wordsworths, should have esteemed and loved you first and most; and as it is, next to them I love and honor you. Heaven knows, a part of such a wreck as my head and heart is scarcely worth your acceptance. S. T. COLERIDGE. October 25, 1815. My DEAR Au~sTox: I could have wished to have learnt more particulars from you respecting yourself. I have, perhaps, felt too great an awe for the sacredness of Grief. But those of our household know with how deep and re- current a sympathy I have followed you: and 1 know what consolation it has been to me that you have in every sense the consolation and the undoubting Hopes of a Christian. Blessed indeed is that Gift from above, the characteristic oper ation of which is to transmute the pro- foundest sources of our Sorrow into the most inexhaustible sources of our Com- fort. The very Virtues that enforce the Tear of earthly regret, fill that Tear with a Light not earthly. There is a capa- ciousness in every living Heart which retains an aching vacuum, what and howsoever numerous its present Freight of worldly Blessings may be: and as God only can fill it, so must it needs be a sweet and gracious Incarnation of the Heavenly that what we deeply loved, but with fear and trembling, we must now love with a love of Faith that ex- cludeth fear! love it in God, and God in it! From such thoughts none but an abrupt Transition is possible. I pass, therefore, at once, by an effort, to the sphere in which you are appointed, be- cause highly gifted, to act; and in this I can but pour forth two earnest wishes. First, that equal to the best in composi- tion, and I most firmly believe superior in the charm of coloring, you would commend your genius to the univer- sally intelligible of your ~rrayyXJ.icro-~ TEXv~Expression! Second, that you never for any length of time absent yourself from Nature, and the commun- ion with Nature: for to you alone of all contemporary Artists does it seem to have been given to know what Nature isnot the dead Shapes, the outward Letter, but the Life of Nature revealing itself in the Phzenomenon, or rather attempting to reveal itself. Now, the power of producing the true Ideals is no other, in my belief, than to learn the Will from the Deed, and then to take the Will for the Deed. The great Artist does what Nature would do, if only the disturbing Forces were abstracted. With regard to my MSS., I had no other wish, and had formed no higher expectation than this: that a Copyright, as exclusive as the American Law per- mits, should be vested in some one Bookseller who should have the Copy in time enough to get it printed in Amer- ica two months before the work could arrive from England; th~t is to say, have it published in Boston or Phila- delphia at the same time of its first publication in England, and that the Bookseller, in return for the Copy and VOL. XI.7 73 Copyright, should secure to me some portion, say one-third, of his net profits. If this can be done, I shall think it worth while to continue the transcrip- tion, though the ultimate profits should be but from 20 to 0 Os. Od. One volume of 900 pages octavo contains the History of my life and opinions; the second, my Poems, composed since 1795, i.e., those not in my volume of Poems~ already printed. In the Ode on the Death of Gen- eral Ross, if I ever finish it, I shall ut- ter a voice of lamentation on the moral War between the Child and the Parent Country, a War laden with curses for unborn generations in both Countries! You may well believe, therefore, that I shall not make myself an accomplice directly or indirectly, by flattery or by abuse, in what I regard as a crime of no ordinary guilt, the feeding or palli- ating the vindictive antipathy of the one party, or the senseless, groundless, wicked Contempt and Insolence of the other. Even now it would not be too late, if the Spirit of Philosophy could be called down on Ministers and Gov- ernments. The true Policy is palpable and simple. A child, wearied out by undue exercise of parental authority, elopes, marries with an independent fortune, and sets up for himself. The matter is irrevocable; a reconciliation takes place, and the Parent himself is convinced that he had acted tyranni- cally and under false notions of the ex- tent of his authority, and that in the same proportion his child had acted justifiably. What then would a good Parent do? Evidently, treat the child with the kindness of a Parent, but with additional respect and etiquette, as now a Householder, and himself the Master of a Family; and this he will show in the character of his Messengers, in the style of his letters, etc. But if in addi- tion to the duties of family love, their two Trades or Estates played into each others hands, so that they could not really prosper without increasing their Dealings with each other (suppose the Father a Shoemaker - finisher, and the Son a Tanner - currier), then common self-love would dictate the abandonment of every act and impulse of Jealousy. Were I Dictator, I would not only send CORRESPONDENCE OP WASHING TON ALLSTON. 74 OORRESPONDENGL~ OP WASHINGTON ALLSTON. to America men of the highest Rank and Talent, with more than usual Splen- dor, as Ambassadors, Ministers, etc.; but would throw open not only the West Indies, but the whole Colonial Trade to the Americans, confident that every new City that would thence arise in the United States would add a new street to some Town in G. Britain. Alas! that the Dictates of Wisdom should be but Dreams of Benevolence, to be interpreted by contraries! The malignant Witchcraft of evil Passions reads good mens Prayers backward! and I cannot help dreading that the hot heads of both Countries will go on to make folly beget folly, both the more wrong in proportion as each is right. How little then ought we to value Wealth and Power, seeing that every nation carries its only formidable ene- my in its Bosom; and the vices that make its enemies elsewhere are but the Systole to its Diastole. I have received a most flattering letter from Lord Byron. Should my Tragedy be accepted (of which I have little doubt), I shall, God willing, see you about Christmas. Meantime may God bless you. Let me hear from you soon. S. T. COLERIDGE. P. S.Friday last (20th) my forty- fourth birthday; and in all but the brain I am an old man! Such ravages do anxiety and mismanagement make. The following letters from Allston to his friend and former pupil, C. B. Les- lie, were written in the year following Allstons return to Amenca: From Aliston to Leslie. Boston, November 15, 1819. Dz~a LESLIE: Your letter by the London packet, together with the prints, has been re- ceived. Tell Frank Collins I feel greatly obliged to him for hunting up the ad- mirable print of Lievens Lazarus, which I value more than I should twenty of Lebruns battles, fine as they are. Pray say to him that when he has col- lected for me to the amount of ten pounds, I wish him to stop, until I shall be a little more in cash, when I will write to request him to proceed. Thank him also for the present of his brothers print of the sea-coast; I am glad to have such a remembrance of the picture, and accept yourself my thanks for the print of your church. I like it exceedingly. The critiques on your Sir Roger and my Jacob, from the New Monthly Magazine, were republished here before I got the ]ilagazine you sent. I find, as I supposed, they were written by Mr. Careyindeed I thought they must have been by him, as there is not one of the London picture critics who could have done them half so well. Pray present him my best thanks for it. He has de- scribed your picture so well that I could almost copy it from the description. I heartily congratulate you on its success, and hope that it may prove a trusty pioneer for you to fame and fortune. The last, however, is only dreamt of by young painters ; a dream which becomes dimmer and dimmer as we advance in life. But no matter, the art itself has so much intrinsic pleasures for its votaries that we ought to be satisfied if to that is added but enough of the Mammon to make the ends of the year meet. Indeed I often think, with Collins, that if a painter who really loved his art had together with fame, as much wealth as he wished, he would be too happy in this world ever to be in a suitable state of mind to leave it. I hope, notwith- standing, that Collins is getting money so as to lay up something at the end of each year; for a little more than we have, I trust, would do neither of us any harm; but everything is for the best so we do our duty to Heaven. Tell him I think and talk a great deal about him (as I do also about you), talk to those whom he has never seen, but who, in feeling an interest in all I love and esteem, require not the aid of sight to admit him and you among the num- ber of their friends. How mysterious, when we ponder over it, is this communication by words, and how real and distinct an image do they create in our minds of objects far removed, even of those long buried in the grave, over which centuries have passed. Indeed, so familiar is the image CORRESPONDENCE OP WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 75 of Sir Joshua to me, his manners, hab- its, modes of thinking, and even of speaking, created by the description of him, that I feel almost persuaded at times I had actually been acquainted with him. What a world is that of thought! And what a world does he possess whose thoughts are only of the beautiful, the pure, and holy. How fearful then is his, where the vindict- ive and base and sensual make the sum. As the tree falleth, so shall it lie. I write without order whatever comes uppermost, and consequently have left myself too little room to tell you all I wished. I have painted a small picture from Spenser, and a head of Beatrice, both just sold. I shall soon proceed with the Belshazzar, then the hospital picture, and no more small pictures. Morse has spent the sum- mer here, and has just finished a large whole-length portrait of a beautiful girl wandering amid the ruins of a Gothic abbey. Tis well drawn, composed, and colored, and would make a figure even at Somerset House. I always thought he had a great deal in him, if he would only bring it out by application, which you will be glad to hear he at length has acquired. Circumstances made him industrious, and being continued, his industry has grown a habit. He leaves town this week for Washington, where he is to paint a whole-length of the President for the City Hall, Charles- ton. I have written to Mr. Howard, the Secretary of the Royal Academy, enclos- ing to him a paper he sent me for my signature, and have requested him to deliver my diploma to you, which I will thank you to have put into a deal box, and to deliver to Captain Tracy, to bring out to me when he returns. Tell me all about the artists. What is Welles do- ing? Give my best and most affec- tionate regards to Irving, and tell him I will write by the next opportunity. His Sketch-Book is greatly admired here. I like all the articles. Above all give my regards to Mr. West, to whom I have written a note enclosed to Mr. Howard. God bless you, yours ever, WAsHINGToN ALL5TON. From Aliston to Leslie. BOSTON, May 20, 1821. DEAR LEsLIE: So many things must have been done in the Art since you last wrote, that I begin to feel not a little impatient for some account of them; but as I have so long owed you a letter, I have no right to expect one from you till I pay my debts; so I must e en, lazy as I am, write to you. Of you and Newton I occasionally hear from such of our countrymen as have met you in London; but they sel- dom give any distinct account of what either of you are doing; of which, how- ever, the newspapers sometimes speak, after their manner, with more credit of their own judgment than distinctness in their criticism. The last account which I have seen of you in the latter was of your Gypsying Party, which was almost a year back. I am pleased to find that Newtons last picture, The Importunate Author, from Molii~re, was so generally admired. I can have little notion of the picture, it being a branch of art he has engaged in since I left London. But from the variety of no- tices, and all favorable, which I have seen of it, I conclude it must have been generally liked by the artists, from whom the newspaper critics, especially when they agree in praising, always take their tone. By the by, have you seen a criticism on Haydons Entrance of our Saviour into Jerusalem, in an article on the State of the Arts in Eng- land, in a late number of the Edinburgh Review? The praise it gives, I think just, but cannot say the same of all the censure; one point, however, in the lat- ter seems well foundedthe want of those subtle niceties and inflections in the outlines which make so great a part of the charm in some of the old masters; it was what I always felt the want of in nearly all the pictures of modern date. With respect to the rest of the review, it is but little better than a gross libel on the English schooL The specula- tions of the writer seem to be those of a man who, in hunting after originality, runs down a common thought till it falls to pieces, then putting it again together, and by stitching on the head where the tail was, is astonished to find what an 76 CORRESPONDENCE OF WASHINGTON ALLSTOM extraordinary animal he has been chas- ing. It is a dangerous thing for a writer to think of his own cleverness when he is engaged in the cause of truth; the interest of the cause is too apt to become subordinate to the & lat of the pleaders wit. But it is time that I say something of myself. Various circumstances have prevented me from recommencing with Belshazzar till last September, since which I have, with one interruption, been constantly at work on it. On see- ing it at a greater distance in my pre- sent room, I found I had got my point of distance too near, and the point of sight too high. It was a sore task to change the perspective in so large a pict- ure; but I had the courage to do it, and by lowering the latter and increasing the former I find the effect increased a hundredfold. I have spared no labor to get everything that came within the laws of perspective correct, even the very banisters in the gallery are put in by rule. Now it is over I do not regret the toil, for it has given me a deeper knowledge of perspective than I ever had before, for I could not do that and many other things in the picture, which are seen from below, without pretty hard fagging at the Jesuit. * I have, besides, made several changes in the composition, which are for the better, such as introducing two enormous flights of steps, beyond the table, lead- ing up to an inner apartment. These steps are supposed to extend wholly across the hall, and the first landing- place is crowded with figures, which being just discoverable in the dark, have a powerful effect on the imagina- tion. I suppose them to be principally Jews, exulting in the overthrow of the idols and their own restoration, as prophesied by Jeremiah, Isaiah, and others, which I think their action suf- ficiently explains. The gallery, too, is also crowded, the figures there fore- shorthened as they would appear seen from below. I have written to Collins by this opportunity, and given him a list of what I have done since I have been here. Among the pictures mentioned I consider Jeremiah and Miriam A standard work on perspective. the Prophetess the best I have done here: the last, I think, is one of the best I have ever painted, in the back of which is seen the shore of the Red Sea, and on it the wreck of Pharaohs army. I have a piece of news for youno less than that I am engaged to be mar- ried. The finishing of Belshazzar is all I wait for to be once more a happy husband. Believe me, affectionately your friend, W. ALLsToN. In 1830, when Allston was already settled in Cambridgeport, and was de- voting himself almost exclusively to his Belshazzar, a correspondence with Gulian C. Verplauck took place, which sought to draw his art into public ser- vice, and called out some characteristic letters. Verplanek, who was a man of letters and a conspicuous figure in public life, was chairman of the Committee on Pub- lic Buildings of the House of Represen- tatives. From Verplanclc to B. H. Dana. WASHINGTON, February 17, 1830. My DEAR SIR: I have this moment written to Aliston about a picture for our public buildings from his hand, which, as chairman of the Committee on Pub- lic Buildings, I hope to be able to get ordered by Congress and passed in our general bill for the buildings, etc., with- out any flourish, or limiting him to any subject of the day. I hope he will an- swer me without delay, and I must rely upon you to make him do so. Before I leave Congress I trust to do the state some service by reducing the magnificent uselessness of our hail, and leaving it to my successors in a state where common - sense can be spoken and heard, and where a shrill voice or else the lungs of a stentor will not be the chief requisites of a con- gressional orator. In other words, I am very busy in studying both the theory and practice of acoustics for the pur- pose of improving the hall, and I am convinced that such a reform would do CORRESPONDENCE OF WASHINGTON ALLSTON. more for the legislature, as well as its taste and eloquence, than any law or constitutional amendment. I feel that I cannot fill my sheet with anything worth reading, and having begun with the benevolent intention of making you act as Allstons flapper according to the Laputan usage, must end by again urging upon you that duty. Yours truly, G. C. VERPLANcK. From Aliston to lferplanclc. CAMBRIDGEPORT, MASS., March 1, 1830. My DEAR Sin: I did not get your letter of the 17th ult. until the night before last (Saturday), and I shall en- deavor, agreeably to your wishes, to answer it in a business-like manner. Though I have, I fear, but little of that laconic spirit, so essential to it, which I used so much to admire in our excellent friend, S. Williams, of Finsbury Square. Without more flourish, then, you could not desire to be more heartily thanked than I thank you for this additional in- stance of the friendship with which you honor me. These are not words of courtesy, but of grateful truth, and yet I fear there are certain formidable, and to my present apprehension, insur- mountable, obstacles to my profiting by your kindness. The subjects from which I am to choose, you say, are lim- ited to American History. The most prominent of these, indeed the only ones that occur to me, are in our mili- tary and naval achievements. Herein lies my difficulty. I will not say that I doubt, I know that I have not any talent for battle pieces; and, perhaps, because they have always appeared to me, from their very nature, incapable of being justly represented; for to say nothing of the ominous prelude of silent emotion, when you take away the excessive move- ment, the dash of arms, the deadly roll of the drum, the blast of the trumpet, forcing almost a heart into a coward, the rush of cavalry, the thunder of ar- tillery, and the still more fearful din of human thunder, giving a terrific life to the whole and all this must be taken from the painterwhat is there left for his canvas? It seems to me (at least in comparison with the living whole) caput mortuum. All these things, and indeed much more, can be made present to the imagination by words. In this the poet and historian have the advantage of the painter. I know not where, even among the great names of my art, to look for anything like the living mass of one of Coopers battles; there are besides many circumstances connected with these subjects, such as monotony of color, of costume, of form, together with a smallness of parts (ever fatal to breadth and grandeur), that make them, at least to me, wholly un- translatable in the painters language. The monotony of color alone would paralyze my hand. Such being my opinion, you will easily believe that I could have no hope of succeeding in subjects of this nature. Indeed, I know from past experience that I must fail when the subject is not of myself, that is, in relation to the powers of my art, essentially exciting. In a pecuniary view, it has been perhaps my misfor- tune to have inherited a patrimony; since it has lasted only just long enough to allow my mind to take its own course, till its habits of thought had become rigid and too fixed to be changed when change was desirable. To be more in- telligible, having in the commencement of my art and for the greater part of my subsequent life, only the pleasure of its pursuit to consult, I of course en- gaged in nothing which had not that for its chief end, the realizing of my con- ceptions being my chief reward; for though the pecuniary profit was always an acceptable contingency, it was never at that time an exciting cause; so far from it, that I have in some instances undertaken works for less than I knew they would cost. As an artist, I can- not, in spite of many troubles, regret this freedom of action, since I feel of such that I owe to it whatever profes- sional skill I may possess. But of late years, since the source of this liberty has been dried up, and the cold current of necessity has sprung up in its stead, I have sometimes, as a man, almost felt the possession to have been a misfort- une, for necessity I find has no inspira- tion; she has not with me even the forc- ing power. Willingly, most willingly, would I have been driven by her, but it 78 CORRESPONDENCE OF WASHINGTON ALLSTON. seems that at my age it cannot be; my imagination has become too fixed in its own peculiar orbit to be moved by any- thing extrinsic. In other words, it seems to me almost morally impossible to compose, much less to finish, a pict- ure where the subject does not afford pleasurable excitement. I trust you know me too well to doubt my patriot- ism because I cannot be inspired to paint an American battle. I yield in love of country to no man; no one has gloried more in the success of her arms, or more sincerely honored the gallant spirits whose victories have given her a name among nations. But they need not my pencil to make their deeds known to posterity. Could I embody them as they deserve, or even make others feel what I have felt, as the fame of them came to me across the water, while I was in kind, hospitable old Eng- land (for such, even while a foe to my country, she ever was to me); could I send that hearty breeze from our gal- lant native land to their hearts, there would be no lack of inspiration. I would invest them with the grandeur of my art, or touch them not. But the power is not mine. I know you will not doubt the sincerity of this convic- tion, but you will better estimate the strength of it when I add, that at no time would the commission you propose be more acceptable to me in a pecuniary view than at present. But may there not be some eligible subject in our civil history? For my- self Ican think of none that would make a picture; of none, at least, that belongs to high art. But such a subject might possibly have occurred to you. If so, and I find it one from which I can make such a picture as you would have me paint, both for my own credit and that of the nation, be assured I will most gladly undertake it. I am persuaded, however, that you will agree with me in this, that no consideration of interest should induce me to accept any commis- sion from the Government that will not tax my powers to their utmost. My best indeed may be all unworthy, but less than that my country shall not have. In the meantime, that is, till a practica- ble subject is found, I must beg you to suspend, if such is in progress, the order for a picture. You will readily appreciate the motive for this request; namely, to avoid the censure which the good-natured world are ever too dis- posed to bestow on all those who seem wanting to their own interests. I know the world too well not to foresee that it would do me essential injury were it known that I declined such a commis- sion. They would not understand the impracticability I have stated, were they even made acquainted with it. Neither would they believe how grievous to me was the necessity of declining it. There is another class of subject, however, in which, were I permitted to choose from it, I should find exciting matter enough, and more than enough, for my imperfect skillthat is, from Scripture. But I fear this is a forlorn hope. Yet why should it be? This is a Christian land, and the Scriptures be- long to no country, but to man. The facts they record come home to all men, to the high and the low, the wise and simple; but I need not enlarge on this topic to you. Should the Government allow me to select a subject from them, I need not say with what delight I should accept the commission. With such a source of inspiration and the glory of painting for my country, if there be anything in me, it must come out. Would it might be so I But let us suppose itwell, supposing such a commission given, theres a subject al- ready composed in petto, which I have long intended to paint as soon as I am at liberty: the three Marys at the tomb of the Saviour, the angel sitting on a stone before the mouth of the sepub chre. I consider this one of my happi- est conceptions. The terrible beauty of the angel, his preternatural brightness, the varied emotions of wonder, awe, and bewilderment of the three women, the streak of distant daybreak lighting the City of Jerusalem out of the darkness, and the deep-toned spell of the chiaro- oscuro, mingling as it were the night with the day, I see now before me; I wish I could see them on the walls at Washington. Now as to the price, should such a dream, I will not call it hope, be real- ized, it would be eight thousand dol- lars, which I believe was the price given CORRESPONDENCE OF WASHING TON ALLS TON. 79 to Colonel Trumbull for each of his pictures. I should not indeed refuse ten thousand, should Uncle Sam take the generous fit upon him to offer it, but eight is my price for that particular com- position, which would consist of four figures, seven feet high; the picture it- self (an upright) twelve or thirteen feet high and ten or twelve wide. Were I to undertake a larger composition from another subject, and of the di- mensions of Colonel Trumbulls, which I think are eighteen by twelve, the price would be then ten or twelve thousand. I fear this last sum would frighten some of your grave members; my conscience would, however, be quite safe in making the demand, were it even more. And I think I have already given the world sufficient proof that I am not mercen- ary. Pray do not let any part of this letter get into print.. I beg you will not think from anything I have said, that I intend any disrespect to the painters of battles, or that I would under-rate such pictures. I meant only to express my own pecul- iar notions of them, as picturable sub- jects, quoad, myself. There are many of deserved reputation, which show great skill in their authors; and among those of modern date, it would be unjust not to mention, as holding the very first rank, Mr. Wests Wolf and the Death of Warren and Montgomery, and the Sortie by Colonel Trumbull. Truly you might say, our good friends laconic mantle has not fallen on the writer of this epistle; I believe if I could write shorter letters, I should be a better correspondent, but I have not the secret. Ever most truly yours, W. ALL5TON. From Verplancic to Allston. WAsHINGTON, March 9, 1830. My IDEAR Sm: Your letter only con- vinces me the more that we must, if we can, have one specimen of high art on the wall of the CapitoL By Amer- ican history, mere revolutionary history is not meant. To Scripture, I fear we cannot go in the present state of public opinion and taste. But does our ante- revolutionary history present no sub- ject? The landing of the pilgrims, a threadbare subject in some respects, has never been viewed with a poets and painters eye. What think you of that, or of any similar subject in our early history? Your townsman, Dr. Holmes, has recently published a very useful, though not important, book of Annals. A hasty glance over the first volume of this would perhaps suggest some idea. If not, I still fall back upon the pilgrims. I have read your letter to Colonel Dray- ton, who fully agrees with me in honor- ing your feeling upon this subject, and still wishes to call upon your services in embellishing our national annals. Emu- lating our friend Williams, not from choice, but from the wish not to lose the mail, I will not turn over the leaf. Yours truly, G. C. VERPLANCK. From Allston to Verplancle. CAMBRIDGEPORT, March 29, 1830. My DEAR Six: Your two letters of the ninth and twelfth have, as the busi- ness phrase is, duly come to hand; as you full well know that I cannot be in- sensible to such persevering kindness, I will not trouble you with a repetition of thanks, but proceed to answer them in as business-like a way as I can. To the first subject you propose, The Landing of the Pilgrims (not unpicturesque), I have a personal objec- tion. It has already been painted by an old friend of mine, Colonel Sargent, a high-minded, honorable man, to whom I would on no account give pain; which I could not avoid doing were I to en- croach on what, at the expense of sev- eral years labor, he has a fair right to consider as his ground. I do not like rivalry in any shape; and my picture on the same subject would seem like it. Indeed, it would give me no pleasure to beat anyone. Nor do I consider this business of beating as having any natural connection with excellence of any kind, which to be such must be in- trinsic and independent of comparison. Nature never made two minds alike; and if the artist, whether poet or paint- er, has any of the mens divinior with the power of embodying it, his produc- tion must have & distinctive excellence, 80 CORRESPONDENCE OF WASHINGTON ALLS TON. which not a hundred bad or good ones by another can either increase or di- minish. I know this is not the doctrine of the Reviewing age, but I believe it to be true, nevertheless. Moreover, I doubt if competition was ever yet the cause of a great work. It is the love of excellence in the abstract, and for itself, that alone can produce excellence. And I believe that Raffaelle loved Michael An- gelo because he thought him his supe- rior, for that excellen7ce which he could not reach himself. There may indeed be clever imitations, got up under more ignoble impulses, a kind of second-hand originality, as Edmund Dana calls them, that might pass for it; nay, the world is full of them, mocking each other, and sometimes mocking at, and how bitter- lyBut here I am wandering off, like Tangent in the play, I hardly know where. After this excursion I will not trouble you with my objections to the other subject, the Leave-taking of Washington, lest I have no room for one of my own choosing, which I should be glad to have you approve, namely: The First Interview of Columbus with Ferdinand and Isabella, at court after the discovery of America, accompanied by natives, and so forth, exhibited in evidence of his success. As you have read Irvings book it is unnecessary for me to describe the scene. Here is mag- nificence, emotion, and everything, the very triumph of matter to task a paint- ers powers. The announcement and the proof of the birth of a new world. This is not thought of now for the first time. I have long cherished it as one of the dreams which the future, if the future were spared me, was one day to embody. But to business; the size of a picture from this would be not less than eighteen feet by twelve, perhaps twenty by fourteen; and the price fif- teen thousand dollars. As to its class, I know not what subject could be said more emphatically to belong to Amer- ica, and her history, than the triumph of her discoverer. We, who now enjoy the blessing of his discovery, cannot place him too high in that history which without him would never have been. Besides, the beautiful work of Irving has placed him as the presiding genius over the yet fresh, and we will hope, im mortal, fountain of our national litera- ture; the fame of which Columbus was so long defrauded is now restored to him, and it will endure, at least with every American heart. Pray excuse my heroics, I did not mean to get into them. May I venture to suggest one popular hint. The subject is from an American book, and a book, too, that any country might be proud of. Now I am going to take a liberty, for which I feel assured you will not require any apology. Could not a commission also be given to my friend Yanderlyn? He is truly a man of genius, who has powers, if opportunity is given to call them forth, that would do honor to his country. His An- adne has no superior in modern art; his Marius also, though not equal to that, is still a noble work. Some persons have unjustly censured him for not having painted many such pictures. The wonder to me is how, circumstanced as he has been ever since I have known him, he could have attained to the knowledge and power in the art which those works show him to possess. For, I say it not in friendship, but in simple justice, Yanderlyn is a great artist. I have known him for many years, in France and Italy, intimately, and I never knew the time when he had not literally to struggle with poverty; the process of procuring his daily bread stifling pow- ers that, if allowed freely to act, would have filled Europe with his name. I fear that like the subject of my last let- ter, he finds no inspiration in necessi- ty. Let his country now call his geni- us forth, I know he will do her honor. With this opinion of him, I need hardly say that my own commission would be doubly welcome, should I hear at the same time that an equal commission was also given to Vanderlyn. And if Uncle Sams generous mood would in- cline him, too, to commission Morse and Sully, I should then be thereby delight- ed. Morse I consider as a child of my own, and you know what I think of him. The quickening atmosphere which he is now breathing in Europe, will open some original and powerful seeds which I long ago saw in him. I am much mistaken if he has not that in him which will one day surprise. And Sully has historical powers, already CORRESPONDENCE OP WASHING TON ALLS TON. 81 (Facsimile of a pen and ink drawing by Aliston, from his painting.) proved in his Crossing the Delaware, of no common order. I am much gratified to learn the in- terest which Colonel Drayton does rile the honor to take in my behalf. I knew him some years since in London, and I have met few persons with whom I have been so much pleased on so short an acquaintance. Pray present him my re- spects and thanks. Should the com- mission be given I hope they will not limit me as to time, as I have several en- gagements that must previously be ful- filled. My interest would, of course, preclude any unnecessary delay. Faithfully yours, Mr. Verplaneks bill failed to pass the house owing to a pressure of other business, and the whole matter lapsed for several years. In 1836, however, the measure, never entirely dropped, was carried through; and a new corre- spondence, this time with Mr. Jarvis, of the committee, shows that in the inter- val he had incurred an obligation to fin- ish his Belshazzar, which weighed upon him to an almost morbid degree, and was now the leading motive of his refusal of an offer which, especially coupled with his need of money, must VOL. XL8 have presented great temptations to his mind. Apart from Allstons own ambition to finish his great picture, it was to be paid for by a subscription of $1,000 each from ten gentlemen, and a part of the money had been already advanced. GAMBRIDGEPORT, June 24, 1836. DEAR JArivls: I have just received your letter of the eighteenth inst., in- forming me of the passage of a bill by Congress for supplying the vacant pan- els in the Rotunda with pictures by American artists. For your friendly intention in my behalf, I beg you to ac- cept my best thanks; but I regret to say, that under present circumstances it is not in my power to profit by them. I had anticipated this contingency, and had long since deliberately made up my mind on the subject. I am not a free man, nor shall I probably become one in less than three years; for after the completion of Belshazzar (which I ex- pect to resume in a few weeks) I have several other pictures engaged, which I am bound in honor to finish before I undertake any new work. An expected picture at an uncertain time is an incu- bus to my imagination; I have there- fore, under this feeling, declined five Figures from Jacobs Dream. 82 CORRESPONDENCE OF WASHINGTON ALLS TON. commissions within the last eighteen months. Could you know but the twentieth part of what I have suffered from the (compelled) delay of Belshaz- zar, you would readily believe that my peace of mind requires me to withstand to do. Even some who professed to be friendly could not forbear a hard word. I do not, however, believe there was any ill-nature in this; but words, if un- just, may be hard without ill-nature. I never quitted Beishazzar at any time the present temptation, for temptation it certainly is; but he is safe who knows when he is tempted, seeing the end in the beginning. Were I free from my imperative engagements, noth- ing would delight me more than to fill one of the panels of the Rotunda. It has often been a pleasant dream to me; but I am not my own master and must dismiss all such dreams. I would not recall, much less repeat, the many injurious speeches that have been made about me for not finishing this picture, though it was a private affair, with which the public had nothing but when compelled to do so by debts contracted while engaged upon it, and which I could discharge only by paint- ing small pictures; many of which, from being forced work, cost me treble the labor and time they otherwise would have done, and consequently left but a pittance of profitnay, some hardly enough to cover their expenses, and of course without the means of returning to the larger work. You know that I have been unremitting in my labors. For years the Sabbath was the only time that I have been absent (except on busi- ness) from my painting - room, and I Figures from Jacobs Dream. CORRESPONDENCE OF WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 83 never sit there with my arms folded. That I have not brought more to pass was because I was like a bee trying to make honey in a coal-hole. But, thanks to some noble - hearted friends, those dark days are now past. They have taken me out of the squirrel cage; my foot no longer falls in the same place, but every step I take carries me onward. By the assistance of these friends, my mind is now at ease; but it would not long continue so were I to accept the commission which your friendship has so kindly labored to procure me. If in a private affair the public would re- proach me for not performing an impos- sibility, they can hardly be expected to be more considerate when every man in the country might claim to be a party. Will he never finish that picture for Government? might be asked from Castine to St. Louis. No money would buy off the fiends that such would con- jure up. I am now an old man, and am besides too infirm of body to bear these things as some might; they would soon wear away the little flesh I have. A regard for my peace therefore will compel me to decline the Government commission, should it be offered me. But I must wind up this long epistle by again expressing my grateful thanks for your kindness, which I trust you know I most sincerely feel, though for the reasons assigned I cannot avail myself of it as you had hoped. That it might not be thought (from ignorance of my motives) that I had carelessly thrown fortune from me, I wish you to show this letter in confidence to Mr. Preston. I have written freely to you as an old Aliston. friend, what I could not have written to him, and it will save me the awkwardness of a more formal exposition of the rea- sons for declining the honor which the committee would confer on me. Pray present my respects to Mr. Preston. Give my best regards to Green- ough and tell him that I shall be right glad to see him. Your old and faithful friend, W. Au~srox. Michael Setting the Watch. (From a tracing in chalk.) And lo! there was disclosed but a trayful of papers. Page S6. DRAWN ev w. L. METCALF. By Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. CHAPTER XIV. rigged up a windsail on deck, began the work of rummaging the cabins. THE CABIN OF THE FLYING SCUD. I must not be expected to describe our first days work, or (for that matter) THE sun of the morrow had not clear- any of the rest, in order and detail as it ed the morning bank: the lake of the occurred. Such particularity might have lagoon, the islets, and the wall of break- been possible for several officers and a ers now beginning to subside, still lay draft of men from a ship of war, accom- clearly pictured in the flushed obscurity panied by an experienced secretary with of early day, when we stepped again a knowledge of shorthand. For two upon the deck of the Flying Scud: plain human beings, unaccustomed to Nares, myself, the mate, two of the the use of the broad-axe and consumed hands, and one dozen bright, virgin with an impatient greed of the result, axes, in war against that massive struct- the whole business melts, in the retro- ure. I think we all drew pleasurable spect, into a nightmare of exertion, heat, breath; so profound in man is the in- hurry, and bewilderment; sweat pour- stinct of destruction, so engaging is the ing from the face like rain, the scurry interest of the chase. For we were now of rats, the choking exhalations of the about to taste, in a supreme degree, bilge, and the throbs and splinterings the double joys of demolishing a toy of the toiling axes. I shall content my- and playing Hide the handkerchief: self with giving the cream of our discor- sports from which we had all perhaps cries in a logical rather than a temporal desisted since the days of infancy, orderthe two indeed practically coin- And the toy we were to burst in pieces cided-and we had finished our explor- was a deep-sea ship; and the hidden ation of the cabin, before we could be good for which we were to hunt was a certain of the nature of the cargo. prodigious fortune. Nares and I began operations by toss- The decks were washed down, the ing up pell-mdll through the companion, main hatch removed, and a gun-tackle and piling in a squalid heap about the purchase rigged, before the boat arrived wheel, all clothes, personal effects, the with breakfast. I had grown so suspi- crockery, the carpet, stale victuals, tins cious of the wreck, that it was a positive of meat, ~nd in a word, all movables relief to inc to look down into the hold, from the main cabin. Thence, we trans- and see it full, or nearly full, of unde- ferred our attention to the captains niable rice packed in the Chinese fash- quarters on the starboard side. Using ion in boluses of matting. Breakfast the blankets for a basket, we sent up over, Johnson and the hands turned to the books, instruments, and clothes to upon the cargo; while Nares and I, swell our growing midden on the deck; having smashed open the skylight and and then Nares, going on hands and Copyright, 1891, by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osoonrue. All rights reserved. VOL. XL9 THE WRECKER.

By Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osbourne. CHAPTER XIV. rigged up a windsail on deck, began the work of rummaging the cabins. THE CABIN OF THE FLYING SCUD. I must not be expected to describe our first days work, or (for that matter) THE sun of the morrow had not clear- any of the rest, in order and detail as it ed the morning bank: the lake of the occurred. Such particularity might have lagoon, the islets, and the wall of break- been possible for several officers and a ers now beginning to subside, still lay draft of men from a ship of war, accom- clearly pictured in the flushed obscurity panied by an experienced secretary with of early day, when we stepped again a knowledge of shorthand. For two upon the deck of the Flying Scud: plain human beings, unaccustomed to Nares, myself, the mate, two of the the use of the broad-axe and consumed hands, and one dozen bright, virgin with an impatient greed of the result, axes, in war against that massive struct- the whole business melts, in the retro- ure. I think we all drew pleasurable spect, into a nightmare of exertion, heat, breath; so profound in man is the in- hurry, and bewilderment; sweat pour- stinct of destruction, so engaging is the ing from the face like rain, the scurry interest of the chase. For we were now of rats, the choking exhalations of the about to taste, in a supreme degree, bilge, and the throbs and splinterings the double joys of demolishing a toy of the toiling axes. I shall content my- and playing Hide the handkerchief: self with giving the cream of our discor- sports from which we had all perhaps cries in a logical rather than a temporal desisted since the days of infancy, orderthe two indeed practically coin- And the toy we were to burst in pieces cided-and we had finished our explor- was a deep-sea ship; and the hidden ation of the cabin, before we could be good for which we were to hunt was a certain of the nature of the cargo. prodigious fortune. Nares and I began operations by toss- The decks were washed down, the ing up pell-mdll through the companion, main hatch removed, and a gun-tackle and piling in a squalid heap about the purchase rigged, before the boat arrived wheel, all clothes, personal effects, the with breakfast. I had grown so suspi- crockery, the carpet, stale victuals, tins cious of the wreck, that it was a positive of meat, ~nd in a word, all movables relief to inc to look down into the hold, from the main cabin. Thence, we trans- and see it full, or nearly full, of unde- ferred our attention to the captains niable rice packed in the Chinese fash- quarters on the starboard side. Using ion in boluses of matting. Breakfast the blankets for a basket, we sent up over, Johnson and the hands turned to the books, instruments, and clothes to upon the cargo; while Nares and I, swell our growing midden on the deck; having smashed open the skylight and and then Nares, going on hands and Copyright, 1891, by Robert Louis Stevenson and Lloyd Osoonrue. All rights reserved. VOL. XL9 THE WRECKER. 86 THE WRECKER. knees, began to forage underneath the burst forth and rattled in the rusty bed. Box after box of Manilla cigars bottom of the box. Without a word, he rewarded his search. I took occasion set to work to count the gold. to smash some of these boxes open, and What is this? I asked. even to guillotine the bundles of cigars; Its the ships money, he returned, but quite in vainno secret cache of doggedly, continuing his work. opium encouraged me to continue. The ships money? I repeated. By the yellow dog that bit the Thats the money Trent tramped and dicky! exclaimed Nares, and turning traded with? And theres his cheque- round from my perquisitions, I found he book to draw upon his owners? And had drawn forth a heavy iron box, se- he has left it? cured to the bulkhead by chain and I guess he has, said Nares, austere- padlock On this he was now gazing, ly, jotting down a note of the gold; not with the triumph that instantly in- and I was abashed into silence till his flamed my own bosom, but with a some- task should be completed. what foolish appearance of surprise. It came, I think, to three hundred and By George, we have it now! I seventy-eight pounds sterling; some cried, and would have shaken hands nineteen pounds of it in silver: all of with my companion; but he did not see, which we turned again into the chest. or would not accept, the salutation. And what do you think of that? I Lets see whats in it first, he re- asked. marked, dryly. And he adjusted the Mr. Dodd, he replied, you see box upon its side, and with some blows something of the rumness of this job, of an axe burst the lock open. I threw but not the whole. The specie bothers myself beside him, as he replaced the you, but what gets me is the papers. box on its bottom and removed the lid. Are you aware that the master of a ship I cannot tell what I expected ; a millions has charge of all the cash in hand, pays worth of diamonds might perhaps have the men advances, receives freight and pleased me; my cheeks burned, my passage-money, and runs up bills in heart throbbed to bursting; and lo! every port? All this he does as the there was disclosed but a trayful of pa- owners confidential agent, and his in- pers, neatly taped, and a cheque-book tegrity is proved by his receipted bills. of the customary pattern. I made a I tell you, the captain of a ship is more snatch at the tray to see what was be- likely to forget his pants than these bills neath; but the captains hand fell on which guarantee his character. rye mine, heavy and hard. known men drown to save them: bad Now, boss! he cried, not unkindly, men, too; but this is the shipmasters is this to be run shipshape? or is it honor. And here this Captain Trent a Dutch grab-racket? not hurried, not threatened with any- And he proceeded to untie and run thing but a free passage in a British over the contents of the papers, with a man-of-warhas left them all behind! I serious face and what seemed an osten- dont want to express myself too strong- tation of delay. Me and my impatience ly, because the facts appear against me, it would appear he had forgotten; for but the thing is impossible. when he was quite done, he sat awhile Dinner came to us not long after, and thinking, whistled a bar or two, refolded we ate it on deck, in a grim silence, the papers, tied them up again; and each privately racking his brain for then, and not before, deliberately raised some solution of the mysteries. I was the tray. indeed so swallowed up ~n these consid- I saw a cigar-box, tied with a piece erations, that the wreck, the lagoon, the of fishing-line, and four fat canvas-bags, islets, and the strident sea-fowl, the Nares whipped out his knife, cut the strong sun then beating on my head, line, and opened the box. It was about and even the gloomy countenance of half full of sovereigns, the captain at my elbow, all vanished Andthe bags? I whispered. from the field of consciousness. My The captain ripped them open one by mind was a blackboard, on which I one, and a flood of mixed silver coin scrawled and blotted out hypotheses; THE WRECKER. 87 comparing each with the pictorial rec- plies in the Pacific. From its outside ords in my memory: ciphering with view I could thus make no deduction; pictures. In the course of this tense and strange to say, the interior was con- mental exercise I recalled and studied cealed. All the other chests, as I have the faces of one memorial masterpiece, said already, we had found gaping open the scene of the saloon; and here I and their contents scattered abroad; found myself, on a sudden, looking in the same remark we found to apply the eyes of the Kanaka. afterwards in the quarters of the sea- Theres one thing I can put beyond men; only this camphor-wood chest, a doubt, at all events, I cried, relinquish- singular exception, was both closed and ing my dinner and getting briskly afoot. locked. There was that Kanaka I saw in the I took an axe to it, readily forced the bar with Captain Trent, the fellow the paltry Chinese fastening, and, like a newspapers and ships articles made out custom-house officer, plunged my hands to be a Chinaman. I mean to rout his among the contents. For some while I quarters out and settle that. groped among linen and cotton. Then All right, said Nares. Ill lazy off my teeth were set on edge with silk, of a bit longer, Mr. Dodd; I feel pretty which I drew forth several strips rocky and mean. covered with mysterious characters. We had thoroughly cleared out the And these settled the business, for I three after-compartments of the ship: recognized them as a kind of bed-hang- all the stuff from the main cabin and ing popular with the commoner class the mates and captains quarters lay of the Chinese. Nor were farther evi- piled about the wheel; but in the for- dences wanting, such as night-clothes ward state-room with the two bunks, of an extraordinary design, a three- where Nares had said the mate and stringed Chinese fiddle, a silk handker- cook most likely berthed, we had as chief full of roots and herbs, and a neat yet done nothing. Thither I went; it apparatus for smoking opium, with a was very bare; a few photographs were liberal provision of the drug. Plainly, tacked on the bulkhead, one of them then, the cook had been a Chinaman; indecent; a single chest stood open, and if so, who was Jos. Amalu? Or had and like all we had yet found, it had J05. stolen the chest before he proceeded been partly rifled. An armful of two- to ship under a false name and domi- shilling novels proved to me beyond a cile? It was possible, as anything was doubt it was a Europeans: no China- possible in such a welter; but regarded man would have possessed any, and the as a solution, it only led and left me most literate Kanaka conceivable in a deeper in the bog. For why should this ships galley was not likely to have chest have been deserted and neglected, gone beyond one. It was plain, then, when the others were rummaged or re- that the cook had not berthed aft, and I moved? and where had Jos. come by that must look elsewhere. second chest, with which (according to The men had stamped down the nests the clerk at the What Cheer) he had and driven the birds from the galley, started for Honolulu? so that I could now enter without con- And how have you fared? inquired test. One door had been already the captain, whom I found luxuriously blocked with rice; the place was in part reclining in our mound of litter. And darkness, full of a foul stale smell and the accent on the pronoun, the height- a cloud of nasty flies; it had been left, ened color of the speakers face, and besides, in some disorder, or else the the contained excitement in his tones, birds, during their time of tenancy, had advertised me at once that I had not knocked the things about; and the alone to make discoveries. floor, like the deck before we washed it, I have found a Chinamans chest in was spread with pasty filth. Against the galley, said I, and John (if there the wall, in the far corner, I found a was any John) was not so much as at handsome chest of camphor wood bound the pains to take his opium. with brass, such as Chinamen and sailors Nares seemed to take it mighty love, and indeed all of mankind that quietly. That so? said he. Now, 88 THE WRECKER. cast your eyes on that and own youre beaten 1 And with a formidable clap of his open hand, he flattened out be- fore me, on the deck, a pair of news- papers. I gazed upon them dully, being in no mood for fresh discoveries. Look at them, Mr. Dodd, cried the captain, sharply. Cant you look at them? And he ran a dirty thumb along the title. Sydney Morning flerald, January 3d, cant you make that out? he cried, with rising energy. And dont you know, sir, that not four ilays after this paper appeared in New South Pole, this ship were standing in heaved her blessed anchors out of China? How did the Sydney Morning Herald get to Hong-Kong in four days? Trent made no land, he spoke no ship, till he got here. Then he either got it here or in Hong - Kong. I give you your choice, my son I he cried, and fell back among the clothes like a man weary of life. Where did you find them? I asked. In that black bag? Guess so, he said. You neednt fool with it. Theres nothing else but a lead-pencil and a kind of worked-out knife. I looked in the bag, however, and was well rewarded. Every man to his trade, captain, said I. Youre a sailor, and youve given me plenty of points! but I am an artist, and allow me to inform you this is quite as strange as all the rest. The knife is a palette knife; the pencil, a Winsor & Newton, and a B B B at that. A palette-knife and a B B B on a tramp brig! Its against the laws of nature. It would sicken a dog, wouldnt it? said Nares. Yes, I continued, its been used by an artist, too: see how its sharpened not for writingno man could write with that. An artist, and straight from Sydney? How can he come in? 0, thats natural enough, sneered Nares. They cabled him to come up and illustrate this dime novel. We fell awhile silent. Captain, I said at last, there is something deuced underhand about this brig. You tell me youve been to sea a good part of your life. You must have seen shady things done on ships, and heard of more. Well, what is this? is it insurance? is it piracy? what is it about? what can it be for? Mr. Dodd, returned Nares, youre right about me having been to sea the bigger part of my life. And youre right again, when you think I know a good many ways in which a dishonest captain maynt be on the square, nor do exactly the right thing by his owners, and altogether be just a little too smart by ninety - nine and three - quarters. Theres a good many ways, but not so many as youd think; and not one that has any mortal thing to do with Trent. Trent and his whole racket has got to do with nothing thats the bed - rock fact; theres no sense to it, and no use in it, and no story to it: its a beastly dream. And dont you run away with that notion that landsmen take about ships. A society actress dont go around more publicly than what a ship does, nor is more interviewed, nor more humbugged, nor more run after by all sorts of little fussinesses in brass but- tons. And more than an actress, a ship has a deal to lose; shes capital, and the actress only character if shes that. The ports of the world are thick with people ready to kick a captain into the penitentiary, if hes not as bright as a dollar and as honest as the morning star; and what with Lloyd keeping watch and watch in every corner of the three oceans, and the insurance leeches, and the consuls, and the customs bugs, and the medicos, you can only get the idea by thinking of a landsman watched by a hundred and fifty detectives, or a stranger in a village Down East. Well, but at sea? I said. You tire me, retorted the captain. Whats the useat sea? Everythings got to come to bearings at some port, hasnt it? You cant stop at sea for- ever, can you ?No; the Flying Scud is rubbish; if it meant anything, it would have to mean something so al- mighty intricate that James G. Blame hasnt got the brains to engineer it; and I vote for more axeing, pioneering, and opening up the resources of this phenomenal brig, and less general fuss, he added, arising. The dime-museum THE WRECKER. 89 symptoms will drop in of themselves, I guess, to keep us cheery. But it appeared we were at the end of discoveries for the day and we left the brig about sundown, withou being further puzzled or further enlightened. The best of the cabin spoilsbooks, in- struments, papers, silks, and curiosities we carried along with us in a blanket, however, to divert the evening hours; and when supper was over, and the table cleared, and Johnson set down to a dreary game of cribbage between his right hand and his left, the captain and I turned out our blanket on the floor, and sat side by side to examine and appraise the spoils. The books were the first to engage our notice. These were rather numerous (as Nares contemptuously put it) for a lime-juicer. Scorn of the British mer- cantile marine glows in the breast of every Yankee merchant captain; as the scorn is not reciprocated, I can only sup- pose it justified in fact; and certainly the old country mariner appears of a less studious disposition. The more credit to the officers of the Flying Scud, who had quite a library, both literary and professional There were Findlays five directories of the worldall broken- backed, as is usual with Findlay, and all marked and scribbled over with cor- rections and additionsseveral books of navigation, a signal code, and an ad- miralty book of a sort of orange hue, called Islands of the Eastern Pacific Ocean, Vol. III., which appeared from its imprint to be the latest authority, and showed marks of frequent con- sultation in the passages about the French Frigate Shoals, the Harman, Cure, Pearl, and Hermes Reefs, Lisian- sky Island, Ocean Island, and the place where we then layBrooks or Midway. A volume of Macaulays Essays and a shilling Shakespeare led the van of the belles lettres; the rest were novels; several Miss Braddonsof course, Aurora Floyd, which has penetrated to every isle of the Pacific, a good many cheap detective books, Bob Boy, Auer- bachs Az~f der IJi3he in the German, and a prize temperance story, pillaged (to judge by the stamp) from an Anglo- Indian circulating library. The admiralty man gives a fine picture of our island, remarked Nares, who had turned up Midway Island. He draws the dreariness rather mild, but you can make out he kno~ws the place.~~ Captain, I cried, youve struck another point in this mad business. See here, I went on eagerly, drawing from my pocket a crumpled fragment of the Daily Occidental which I had in- herited from Jim misled by Hoyts Pacific Directory? Wheres Hoyt? Lets look into that, said Nares. I got that book on purpose for this cruise. Therewith he fetched it from the shelf iA his berth, turned to Midway Island, and read the account aloud. It stated with precision that the Pacific Mail Company were about to form a depot there, in preference to Honolulu, and that they had already a station on the island. I wonder who gives these Directory men their information,Nares reflected. Nobody can blame Trent after that. I never got in company with squarer ly- ing; it reminds a man of a presidential campaign. All very well, said I. Thats your Hoyt, and a fine, tall copy. Bnt what I want to know is, where is Trents Hoyt? Took it with him, chuckled Nares. He had left everything else, bills and money and all the rest; he was bound to take something, or it would have aroused attention on the Tempest: Happy thought, says he; lets take Hoyt. And has it not occurred to you, I went on, that all the Hoyts in creation couldnt have misled Trent, since he had in his hand that red admiralty book, an official publication, later in date, and particularly full on Midway Island? Thats a fact! cried Nares; and I bet the first Hoyt he ever saw was out of the mercantile library in San Francis- co. Looks as if hed brought her here on purpose, dont it? But then thats inconsistent with the steam-crusher of the sale. Thats the trouble with this racket; any one can make half a dozen theories for sixty or seventy per cent. of it; but when theyre made, theres al- ways a fathom or two of slack hanging out of the other end. 90 THE WRECKER. I believe our attention fell next on the papers, of which we had altogether a considerable bulk. I had hoped to find among these matter for a full-length character of Captain Trent; but here I was doomed, on the whole, to disap- pointment. We could make out he was an orderly man, for all his bills were docketed and preserved. That he was convivial, and inclined to be frugal even in conviviality, several documents pro- claimed. Such letters as we found were, with one exception, arid notes from tradesmen. The exception, signed Hannah Trent, was a somewhat fervid appeal for a loan. You know what misfortunes I have had to bear, wrote Hannah, and how much I am disap- pointed in George. The landlady ap- peared a true friend when I first came here, and I ~thought her a perfect lady. But she has come out since then in her true colors; and if you will not be soft- ened by this last appeal, I cant think what is to become of your affection- ate and then the signature. This document was without place or date, and a voice told me that it had gone likewise without answer. On the whole, there were few letters anywhere in the ship; but we found one before we were finished, in a seamans chest, of which I must transcribe some sentences. It was dated from some place on the Clyde. My dearist son, it ran, this is to tell you your dearist father passed away, Jan twelft, in the peace of the Lord. He had your photo and dear Davids lade upon his bed, made me sit by him. Lets be a thegither, he said, and gave you all his blessing. 0 my dear laddie, why were nae you and Davie here? He would have had a happier passage. He spoke of both of ye all night most beautiful, and how ye used to stravaig on the Saturday afternoons, and of auld Kelvinside. Sooth the tune to me, he said, though it was the Sabbath, and I had to sooth him Kelvin Grove, and he looked at his fiddle, the dear man. I cannae bear the sight of it, hell never play it mair. 0 my lamb, come home to me, Im all by my lane now. The rest was in a religious vein and quite conventionaL I have never seen any one more put out than Nares, when I handed him this letter; he had read but a few words, before he cast it down; it was perhaps a minute ere he picked it up again, and the performance was re- peated the third time before he reached the em?. Its touching, isnt it? said I. For all answer, Nares exploded in a brutal oath ; and it was some half an hour later that he vouchsafed an expla- nation. Ill tell you what broke me up about that letter, said he. My old man played the fiddle, played it all out of tune: one of the things he played was Martyrdom, I remember it was all martyrdom to me. He was a pig of a father, and I was a pig of a son; but it sort of came over me I would like to hear that fiddle squeak again. Natural, he added; I guess were all beasts. All sons are, I guess, said I. I have the same trouble on my conscience: we can shake hands on that. Which (oddly enough, perhaps) we did. Amongst the papers we found a con- siderable sprinkling of photographs; for the most part either of very debo- nair-looking young ladies or old women of the lodging.house persuasion. But one among them was the means of our crowning discovery. Theyre not pretty, are they, Mr. Dodd? said Nares, as he passed it over. Who? I asked, mechanically taking the card (it was a quarter-plate) in hand, and smothering a yawn; for the hour was late, the day had been laborious, and I was wearying for bed. Trent and Company, said he. Thats a historic picture of the gang.~~ I held it to the light, my curiosity at a low ebb: I had seen Captain Trent once, and had no delight in viewing him again. It was a photograph of the deck of the brig, taken from forward; all in apple-pie order; the hands gathered in the waist, the officers on the poop. At the foot of the card was written, Brig Flying Scud, Rangoon, and a date; and above or below each individual figure the name had been carefully noted. As I continued to gaze, a shock went through me; the dimness of sleep and fatigue lifted from my eyes, as fog lifts in the channel; and I beheld with startled clearness, the photographic THE WRECKER. 91, presentment of a crowd of strangers. L Trent, Master at the top of the card directed me to a smallish, weazened man, with bushy eyebrows and full white beard, dressed in a frock coat and white trousers; a flower stuck in his button- hole, his bearded chin set forward, his mouth clenched with habitual deter- mination. There was not much of the sailor in his looks, but plenty of the martinet: a dry, precise man, who might pass for a preacher in some rigid sect; and whatever he was, not the Captain Trent of San Francisco. The men, too, were all new to me; the cook, an unmistakable Chinaman, in his char- acteristic dress, standing apart on the poop steps. But perhaps I turned on the whole with the greatest curiosity to the figure labelled E. Goddedaci, 1st off. He whom I had never seen, he might be the identical; he might be the clue and spring of all this mystery; and I scanned his features with the eye of a detective. He was of great stature, seemingly blond as a viking, his hair clustering round his head in frowsy curls, and two enormous whiskers, like the tusks of some strange animal, jutting from his cheeks. With these virile appendages and the defiant attitude in which he stood, the expression of his face only imperfectly harmonized. It was wild, heroic, and womanish looking; and I felt I was prepared to hear he was a sentimentalist, and to see him weep. For some while I digested my discov- ery in private, reflecting how best, and how with most of drama, I might share it with the captain. Then my sketch- book came in my head; and I fished it out from where it lay, with other mis- cellaneous possessions, at the foot of my bunk and turned to my sketch of Cap- tain Trent and the survivors of the Brit- ish brig Flying Scud in the San Francis- co bar-room. Nares, said I, Ive told you how I first saw Captain Trent in that saloon in Frisco? how he came with his men, one of them a Kanaka with a canary- bird in a cage? and how I saw him afterwards at the auction, frightened to death, and as much surprised at how the figures skipped up as anybody there? Well, said I, theres the man I saw -~.-aud I laid tile. sl~et~hbefpre~ him theres Trent of Frisco, and there are his three hands. Find one of them in the photograph, and Ill be obliged. Nares compared the two in silence; Well, he said, at last, I call this rather a relief: seems to clear the hor- izon. We might have guessed at some- thing of the kind from the double ration of chests that figured. Does it explain anything? I asked. It would explain everything, Nares replied, but for the steam - crusher. Itll all tally as neat as a patent puzzle, if you leave out the way these people bid the wreck up. And there we come to a stone wall. But whatever it is, Mr. Dodd, its on the crook. And looks like piracy, I added. Looks like blind hookey! cried the captain. No, dont you deceive your- self; neither your head nor mine is big enough to put a name on this business. CHAPTER XV. THE CARGO OF THE FLYING SCUD. Ix my early days I was a man, the most wedded to his idols of my gener- ation. I was a dweller under roofs: the gull of that which we call civiliza- tion; a superstitious votary of the plas- tic arts: a cit; and a prop of restaurants. I had a comrade in those days, some- what of an outsider, though he moved in the company of artists, and a man fa- mous in our small world for gallantry, knee breeches, and dry and pregnant sayings. He, looking on the long meals and waxing bellies of the French, whom I confess I somewhat imitated, branded me as a cultivator of restaurant fat. And I believe he had his finger on the dangerous spot; I believe, if things had gone smooth with me, I should be now swollen like a prize-ox in body, and fallen in mind to a thing perhaps as low- as many types of bourgeoisthe implicitt or exclusive artist: That was a hom& word of Pinkertons, deserving to be writ in letters of gold on the portico of every school of art: What I cant see is why you should want to do nothing else. The dull man is made, not by the nature, but by the degree of his im- xuersion in a single business. AnA all. 92 THE WRECKER. the more if that be sedentary, unevent- ful, and ingloriously safe. More than one-half of him will then remain unex- ercised and undeveloped; the rest will be distended and deformed by over-nu- trition, over-cerebration, and the heat of rooms. And I have often marvelled at the impudence of gentlemen, who describe and pass judgments on the life of man, in almost perfect ignorance of all its necessary elements and natural careers. Those who dwell in clubs and studios may paint excellent pictures or write enchanting novels. There is one thing that they should not do: they should pass no judgment on mans des- tiny, for it is a thing with which they are unacquainted. Their own life is an excrescence of the moment, doomed, in the vicissitude of history, to pass and disappear: the eternal life of man, spent under sun and rain and in rude physical effort, lies upon one side, scarce changed since the beginning. I would I could have carried along with me to Midway Island all the writ- ers and the prating artists of my time. Day after day of hope deferred, of heat, of unremitting toil; night after night of aching limbs, bruised hands, and a mind obscured with the grateful vacan- cy of physical fatigue: the scene, the nature of my employment; the rugged speech and faces of my fellow - toilers, the glare of the day on deck, the stink- ing twilight in the bilge, the shrill myr- iads of the ocean-fowl: above all, the sense of our immitigable isolation from the world and from the current epoch; keeping another time, some eras old; the new day heralded by no daily paper, only by the rising sun; and the state, the churches, the peopled empires, war, and the rumors of war, and the voices of the arts, all gone silent as in the days ere they were yet invented. Such were the conditions of my new expe- rience in life, of which (if I had been able) I would have had all my confrl~res and contemporaries to partake: forget- ting, for that while, the orthodoxies of the moment, and devoted to a single and material purpose under the eye of heaven. Of the nature of our task, I. must con- tinue to give some summary idea. The forecastle was lumbered with ships chandlery, the hold nigh full of rice, the lazarette crowded with the teas and silks. These. must all be dug out; and that made but a fraction of our task. The hold was celled throughout; a part, where perhaps some delicate cargo was once stored, had been lined, in addition, with inch boards; and between every beam there was a movable panel into the bilge. Any of these, the bulkheads of the cabins, the very timbers of the hull itself, might be the place of hiding. It was therefore necessary to demolish, as we proceeded, a great part of the ships inner skin and fittings, and to auscultate what remained, like a doctor sounding for a lung disease. Upon the return, from any beam or bulkhead, of a flat or doubtful sound, we must up axe and hew into the timber: a violent andfrom the amount of dry rot in the wrecka mortifying exercise. Every night saw a deeper inroad into the bones of the Flying Scud,more beams tapped and hewn in splinters, more planking peeled away and tossed aside, and every night saw us as far as ever from the end and object of our arduous devastation. In this perpetual disap- pointment, my courage did not fail me, but my spirits dwindled; and Nares himself grew silent and morose. At night, when supper was done, we passed an hour in the cabin, mostly without speech: I, sometimes dozing over a book; Kares, sullenly but busily drill- ing sea-shells with the instrument called a Yankee Fiddle. A stranger might have supposed we were estranged; as a matter of fact, in this silent comrade- ship of labor, our intimacy grew. I had been struck, at the first begin- ning of our enterprise upon the wreck, to find the men so ready at the captain~s lightest word. I dare not say they liked, but I can never deny that they admired him thoroughly. A mild word from his mouth was more valued than flattery and half a dollar from myself; if he relaxed at all from his habitual attitude of censure, smiling alacrity sur- rounded him; and I was led to think his theory of captainship, even if pushed to excess, reposed upon some ground of reason. But even terror and admira- tion of the captain failed us before the end. The men wearied of the hopeless, THE WRECKER. 93 unremunerative quest, and the long strain of labor. They began to shirk and grumble. Retribution fell on them at once, and retribution multiplied the grumblings. With every day it took harder driving to keep them to the daily drudge; and we, in our narrow bounda- ries, were kept conscious every moment of the ill-will of our assistants. In spite of the best care, the object of our search was perfectly well known to all on board; and there had leaked out besides some knowledge of those incon- sistencies that had so greatly amazed the captain and myself. I could over- hear the men debate the character of Captain Trent, and set forth competing theories of where the opium was stowed; and as they seemed to have been eaves- dropping on ourselves, I thought little shame to prick up my ears when I had the return chance of spying upon them, in this way. I could diagnose their temper and judge how far they were informed upon the mystery of the IYy- ing Scud. It was after having thus over- heard some almost mutinous speeches, that a fortunate idea crossed my mind. At night, I matured it in my bed, and the first thing the next morning, broached it to the captain. Suppose I spirit up the hands a bit, I asked, by the offer of a reward? If you think youre getting your months wages out of them the way it is, I dont, was his reply. However, they are all the men youve got, and youre the supercargo. This, from a person of the captains character, might be regarded as complete adhesion; and the crew were accordingly called aft. Never had the captain worn a front more menacing. It was sup- posed by all that some misdeed had been discovered, and some surprising punish- ment was to be announced. See here, you! he threw at them over his shoulder as he walked the deck, Mr. Dodd, here, is going to offer a reward to the first man who strikes the opium in that wreck Theres two ways of making a donkey go; both good, I guess: the ones kicks and the others carrots. Mr. Dodds going to try the carrots. Well, my sons,and here he faced the men for the first time with his hands behind him if that opiums not found in five days, you can come to me for the kicks. He nodded to the present narrator, who took up the tale. Here is what I propose, men, said I; I put up one hundred and fifty dollars. If any man can lay hands on the stuff right away, and off his own club, he shall have the hundred and fifty down. If any one can put us on the scent of where to look, he shall have a hundred and twenty-five, and the balance shall be for the lucky one who actually picks it up. Well call it the Pinkerton Stakes, captain, I added, with a smile. Call it the Grand Combination Sweep, then, cries he. For I go you better. Look here, men, I make up this jack-pot to two hundred and fifty dollars, American gold coin. Thank you, Captain Nares, said I; that was handsomely done.~~ It was kindly meant, he returned. The offer was not made in vain; the hands had scarce yet realized the mag- nitude of the reward, they had scarce begun to buzz aloud in the extremity of hope and wonder, ere the Chinese cook stepped forward with gracious gestures and explanatory smiles. Captain, he began, I serv-um two year Melican navy; serva-um six year mail-boat steward. Sav-v-y plenty. C)ho! cried Nares, you sav-v-y plenty, do you? (Beggars seen this trick in the mail-boats, I guess.) Well, why you no sav-v-y a little sooner, son- ny? I think bimeby make-nm reward, replied the cook, with smiling dignity. Well, you cant say fairer than that, the captain admitted, and now the re- wards offered, youll talk? Speak up, then. Suppose you speak true, you get reward. See? I think long time, replied the Chinaman. See plenty litty mat lice; too-muchy plenty litty mat lice; sixty ton, litty mat lice. I think all-e-time: perhaps plenty opium plenty litty mat lice? Well, Mr. Dodd, how does that strike you? asked the captain. He may be right, he may be wrong. Hes likely to be right: for if he isnt, where can the stuff be? On the other hand, if hes wrong, we destroy a hundred and 94 THE WRECKER. fifty tons of good rice for nothing. Its a point to be considered. I dont hesitate, said I. Lets get to the bottom of the thing. The rice is nothing; the rice will neither make nor break us. Thats how I expected you to see it, returned Nares. And we called the boat away and set forth on our new quest. The hold was now almost entirely emptied; the mats (of which there went forty to the short ton) had been stacked on deck, and now crowded the ships waist and forecastle. It was our task to disembowel and explore six thousand individual mats, and incidentally to de- stroy a hundred and fifty tons of valua- ble food. Nor were the circumstances of the days business less strange than its essential nature. Each man of us, armed with a great knife, attacked the pile from his own quarter, slashed into the nearest mat, burrowed in it with his hands, and shed forth the rice upon the deck, where it heaped up, over- flowed, and was trodden down, poured at last into the scuppers, and occasion- ally spouted from the vents. About the wreck, thus transformed into an over- flowing granary, the sea-fowl swarmed in myriads and with surprising insol- ence. The sight of so much food con- founded them; they deafened us with their shrill tongues, swooped in our midst, dashed in our faces, and snatched the grain from between our fingers. The mentheir hands bleeding from these assaultsturned savagely on the offensive, drove their knives into the birds, drew them out crimsoned, and turned again to dig among the rice, un- mindful of the gawking creatures that struggled and died among their feet. We made a singular picture: the hover- ing and diving birds; the bodies of the dead discoloring the rice with blood; the scuppers vomiting breadstuff; the men, frenzied by the gold hunt, toiling, slaying, and shouting aloud: over all, the lofty intricacy of rigging and the radiant heaven of the Pacific. Every man there toiled in the immediate hope @f fifty dollars; and I, of fifty thousand. Small wonder if we waded callously in blood and food. It was perhapa abomt ten in the~ ~oi~e~ noon when the scene was interrupted. Nares, who had just ripped open a fresh mat, drew forth, and slung at his feet among the rice, a papered tin box. Hows that? he shouted. A cry broke from all hands: the next moment, forgetting their own disap- pointment, in that contagious sentiment of success, they gave three cheers that scared the sea-birds; and the next, they had crowded round the captain, and were jostling together and groping with emulous hands in the new-opened mat. Box after box rewarded them, six in all; wrapped, as I have said, in a paper envelope, and the paper printed on, in Chinese characters. Nares turned to me and shook my hand. I began to think we should never see this day, said he. I con- gratulate you, Mr. Dodd, on having pulled it through. The captains tones affected me pro- foundly; and when Johnson and the men pressed round me in turn with con- gratulations, the tears came in my eyes. These are five-tael boxes, more than two pounds, said Nares, weighing one in his hand. Say two hundred and fifty dollars to the mat. Lay into it, boys! Well make Mr. Dodd a million- naire before dark. It was strange to see with what a fury we fell to. The men had now nothing to expect; the mere idea of great sums inspired them with disinterested ardor. Mats were slashed and disembowelled, the rice flowed to our knees in the ships waist, the sweat ran in our eyes and blinded us, our arms ached to agony; and yet our fire abated not. Dinner came; we were too weary to eat, too hoarse for conversation; and yet din- ner was scarce done, before we were afoot again and delving in the rice. Be- fore nightfall not a mat was unexplored, and we were face to face with the as~ tonishing result. For of all the inexplicable things in the story of the Flying Scud, here was the most inexplicable. Out of the six thousand mats, only twenty were found to have been sugared; in each we found the same amount, about twelve pounds of drug; making a grand total of two hundred and forty pounds. By the last ~aux Francisco quotation, opium was. THE WRECKER. 95 selling for a fraction over twenty dollars a pound; but it had been known not long before to bring as much as forty in Honolulu, where it was contraband. Taking, then, this high Honolulu fig- ure, the value of the opium on board the Flying Scud fell considerably short of ten thousand dollars, while at the San Francisco rate, it lacked a trifle of five thousand. And fifty thousand was the price that Jim and I had paid for it. And Bellairs had been eager to go higher! There is no language to ex- press the stupor with which II contem- plated this result. It may be argued we were not yet sure; there might be yet another cache, and you may be certain in that hour of my distress the argument was not for- gotten. There was never a ship more ardently perquested; no stone was left unturned, and no expedient untried; day after day of growing despair, we punched and dug in the brigs vitals, exciting the men with promises and presents; evening after evening Nares and I sat face to face in the narrow cabin, racking our minds for some neglected possibility of search. I could stake my salvation on the certainty of the result: in all that ship there was nothing left of value but the timber and the copper nails. So that our case was lamentably plain; we had paid fifty thousand dollars, borne the charges of the schooner, and paid fancy interest on money; and if things went well with us, we might realize fifteen per cent. of the first outlay. We were not merely bank- rupt, we were comic bankrupts : a fair butt for jeering in the streets. I hope I bore the blow with a good counte- nance; indeed, my mind had long been quite made up, and since the day we found the opium I had known the result. But the thought of Jim and Mamie ached in me like a physical pain, and I shrank from speech and companionship. I was in this frame of mind when the captain proposed that we should land upon the island. I saw he had some- thing to say, and only feared it might be consolation; for I could just bear my grief, not bungling sympathy; and yet I had no choice but to accede to his pro- posal. We wa~Iked awhile along the beach in. silence. The sun overhead reverberated rays of heat; the staring sand, the glar- ing lagoon, tortured our eyes; and the birds and the boom of the far-away breakers made a savage symphony. I dont require to tell you the games up? Nares asked. No, said I. I was thinking of getting to sea to- morrow, he pursued. The best thing you can do, said I. Shall we say Honolulu? he in- quired. 0 yes; lets stick to the programme, I cried. Honolulu be it ! There was another silence, and then Nares cleared his throat. Weve been pretty good friends, you and me, Mr. Dodd, he resumed. Weve been going through the kind of thing that tires a man. Weve had the hardest kind of work, weve been badly backed, and now were badly beaten. And weve fetched through without a word of disagreement. I dont say this to praise myself: its my trade; its what Im paid for, and trained for, and brought up to. But it was another thing for you; it was all new to you; and it did me good to see you stand right up to it and swing right into it, day in, day out. And then see how youve taken this disappointment, when everybody knows you must have been taughtened up to shying-point! I wish youd let me tell you, Mr. Dodd, that youve stood out mighty manly and handsomely in all this business, and made every one like you and admire you. And I wish youd let me tell you, besides, that Ive taken this wreck busi- ness as much to heart as you have; something kind of rises in my throat when I think were beaten ; and if I thought waiting would do it, I would stick on this reef until we starved. I tried in vain to thank him for these generous words, but he was beforehand with me in a moment. I didnt bring you ashore to sound my praises, he interrupted. We understand one another now, thats all and I guess you can trust me. What I wished to speak about is more impor- tant, and its got to be faced. What are we to do about the Flying Scud and the dime novel? 96 THE WRECKER. I really have thought nothing about that, I replied. But I expect I mean to get at the bottom of it; and if the bogus Captain Trent is to be found on the earths surface, I guess I mean to find him. All youve got to do is talk, said Nares; you can make the biggest kind of boom; it isnt often the report- ers have a chance at such a yarn as this; and I can tell you how it will go. It will go by telegraph, Mr. Dodd; itll be telegraphed by the column, and head- lined, and frothed up, and denied by authority; and itll hit bogus Captain Trent in a Mexican bar-room, and knock over bogus Goddedael in a slum some- where up the Baltic, and bowl down Black and Jones in sailors music halls round Greenock. 0, theres no doubt you can have a regular domestic Judg- ment Day. The only point is whether you deliberately want to. Well, said I, I deliberately dont want one thing: I deliberately dont want to make a public exhibition of my- self and Pinkerton: so moralsmug- gling opium; such damned foolspay- ing fifty thousand for a dead horse 1 No doubt it might damage you in a business sense, the captain agreed. And Im pleased you take that view; for Ive turned kind of soft upon the job. Theres been some crookedness about, no doubt of it; but, Law bless you! if we dropped upon the troupe, all the premier artists would slip right out with the boodle in their grip-sacks, and youd only collar a lot of old mut- ton-headed shell-bucks that didnt know the back of the business from the front. I dont take much stock in Mercantile Jack, you know that; but, poor devil, hes got to go where hes told; and if you make trouble, ten to one itll make you sick to see the innocents who have to stand the racket. It would be differ- ent if we understood the operation; but we dont, you see: theres a lot of queer corners in life; and my vote is to let the blame thing lie. You speak as if we had that in our power, I objected. And so we have, said he. What about the men ? I asked. They know too much by half; and you cant keep them from talking. Cant I ? returned Nares. I bet a boarding-master can! They can be all half-seas over, when they get ashore, blind drunk by dark, and cruising out of the Golden Gate in different deep- sea ships by the next morning. Cant keep them from talking, cant I? WelL I can make em talk separate, least- ways. If a whole crew came talking, parties would listen; but if its only one lone old shell-back, its the usual yarn. And at least, they neednt talk before six months, orif we have luck, and theres a whaler handythree years. And by that time, Mr. Dodd, its ancient history. Thats what they call Shanghaiing, isnt it? I asked. I thought it be- longed to the dime novel. Oh, dime novels are right enough, returned the captain. Nothing wrong with the dime novel, only that things happen thicker than they do in life, and the practical seamanship is off4~olor. So we can keep the business to our- selves, I mused. Theres one other person that might blab, said the captain. Though I dont believe she has anything left to tell. And who is she? I asked. The old girl there, he answered, pointing to the wreck. I know theres nothing in her; but somehow Im afraid of some one elseits the last thing youd expect, so its just the first thatll happensome one dropping into this God - forgotten island where nobody drops in, waltzing into that wreck that weve grown old with searching, stoop- ing straight down, and picking right up the very thing that tells the story. Whats that to me? you may ask, and why am I gone Soft Tommy on this Mu- seum of Crooks? Theyve smashed up you and Mr. Pinkerton; theyve turned my hair gray with conundrums ; theyve been up to larks, no doubt; and thats all I know of themyou say. Well, and thats just where it is. I dont know enough; I dont know whats uppermost; its just such a lot of miscellaneous event- ualities as I dont care to go stirring up; and I ask you to let me deal with the old girl after a patent of my own. Certainlywhat you please, said I, scarce with attention, for a new thought THE WRECKER. 97 now occupied my brain. Captain, I broke out, you are wrong; we cannot hush this up. There is one thing you have forgotten. What is that? he asked. A bogus Captain Trent, a bogus Goddedael, a whole bogus crew, have all started home, said I. If we are right, not one of them will reach his journeys end. And do you mean to say that such a circumstance as that can pass without remark? Sailors, said the captain, only sailors! If they were all bound for one place, in a body, I dont say so; but theyre all going separateto Hull, to Sweden, to the Clyde, to the Thames. Well, at each place, what is it? Nothing new. Only one sailor man missing: got drunk, or got drowned, or got left; the proper sailors end. Something bitter in the thought and in the speakers tones struck me hard. Here is one that has got left! I cried, getting sharply to my feet; for we had been some time seated. I wish it were the other. I dontdont relish going home to Jim with this! See here, said Nares, with ready tact, I must be getting aboard. John- sons in the brig annexing chandlery and canvas, and theres some things in the Norah that want fixing against we go to sea. Would you like to be left here in the chicken-ranch? Ill send for you to supper. I embraced the proposal with delight. Solitude, in my frame of mind, was not too dearly purchased at the risk of sun- stroke or sand-blindness; and soon I was alone on the ill-omened islet. I should find it hard to tell of what I thoughtof Jim, of Mamie, of our lost fortune, of my lost hopes, of the doom before me: to turn to at some mechan- ical occupation in some subaltern rank, and to toil there, unremarked and una- mused, until the hour of the last de- liverance. I was, at least, so sunk in sadness, that I scarce remarked where I was going; and chance (or some finer sense that lives in us, and only guides us when the mind is in abeyance) con- ducted my steps into a quarter of the island where the birds were few. By some devious route, which I was unable to retrace for my return, I was thus able to mount, without interruption, to the highest point of land. And here I was recalled to consciousness by a last dis- covery. The spot on which I stood was level, and commanded a wide view of the la- goon, the bounding reef, the round horizon. Nearer hand I saw the sister islet, the wreck, the Norah Creina, and the Norahs boat already moving shore- ward. For the sun was now low, flam- ing on the seas verge; and the galley chimney smoked on board the schooner. It thus befell that though my dis- covery was both affecting and suggestive, I had no leisure to examine further. What I saw was the blackened embers of fireof wreck. By all the signs, it must have blazed to a great height and burned for days; from the scantling of a spar that lay upon the margin only half con- sumed, it must have been the work of more than one; and I received at once the image of a forlorn troop of castaways, houseless in that lost corner of the earth, and feeding there their fire of signal. The next moment a hail reached~ me from the boat; and bursting through the bushes and the rising sea-fowl, I said farewell (I trust forever) to that desert isle. (To be continued.) By H. E. Krehbiel. FOR a month last summer Bayreuth, in Bavaria, was overrun by tourists. By simply going to the Wagner Thea- tre a traveller from the United States was as sure to meet a score of acquaint- ances from home any day as he was, a few weeks later, at the Louvre, when the current of return travel whirled in the annual Parisian eddy. Between the acts the victims of the opera habit were kept as busy greeting friends in that far-away Franconian town as if the New York or London season were at its height and they seated in box or stall at the Metropolitan Opera House or Co- vent Garden. The French contingent seemed to come remittently, attracted by Tristan und Isolde rather than by KParsifal; but to the members of the General Richard Wagner Verein, who had delayed the purchase of tickets un- til it was too late, the American con- tingent was a plague of locusts. Bay- reuth was not privileged this year to sun itself in the presence of German King or Kaiser, but there were princes and dukes in plenty, and every railway train that crawled grunting down the two sides of the triangle from Schnabel- waid and Weiden carried enough Amer- ican monarchs to be considered thrice royaL At the Fantasie, one day, I looked up from my wine to see two ex- cabinet ministers of the United States shaking hands, and when I went to Angermanns for my beer in the even- ing, I found a place at a table around which a publisher, novelist, poet, paint- er, and critic had gathered. They had forgotten their natural antagonisms and were discussing the ethical problem set by Parsifal as earnestly as if it had a more vital bearing on American literature and art than either McKinley or Copy- right BilL An itinerant essayist and peripatetic humorist, of whom I had caught furtive glimpses, were not in the party. The former had probably not recovered from the fatigue caused by his carrying home the keys with which he had been invested by his lodgings keeper on his arrivaL Those keys were too large for his pockets; so he carried them in his hands and exhibited them proudly as antiquities dating back to the period of Bayreuths splendor under the old Margraves. This, to the door of my lodgings; this to the gates of the town! As for the humorist, he was doing Bayreuth witL enough impedi- menta in gowns to keep him supernat- urally solemn, and at a pace which did not allow his feet to come in contact with the ground. The visitors who came and went dur- ing the month numbered, let me say, about 25,000, of whom ~4,500 had tickets for the festival plays in their pockets, bought in advance at the rate of five dollars for each representation. The ticketless five hundred chanced it, either buying the precious pasteboards from speculative headwaiters at prices ranging from seven dollars and a half to twenty dollars, or waiting for an oppor- tunity to be booked for the gallery above the lamps, for which privilege the management, most uncompromis- ingly democratic in this particular, exacted five dollars a seat. The sum which these patient pilgrims paid into the exchequer of the Richard Wagner Theatre is reported at between $165,- 000 and $200,000. Tannh~user was this year added to the Bayreuth list, being associated BAYREUTH REVISITED.

By H. E. Krehbiel. FOR a month last summer Bayreuth, in Bavaria, was overrun by tourists. By simply going to the Wagner Thea- tre a traveller from the United States was as sure to meet a score of acquaint- ances from home any day as he was, a few weeks later, at the Louvre, when the current of return travel whirled in the annual Parisian eddy. Between the acts the victims of the opera habit were kept as busy greeting friends in that far-away Franconian town as if the New York or London season were at its height and they seated in box or stall at the Metropolitan Opera House or Co- vent Garden. The French contingent seemed to come remittently, attracted by Tristan und Isolde rather than by KParsifal; but to the members of the General Richard Wagner Verein, who had delayed the purchase of tickets un- til it was too late, the American con- tingent was a plague of locusts. Bay- reuth was not privileged this year to sun itself in the presence of German King or Kaiser, but there were princes and dukes in plenty, and every railway train that crawled grunting down the two sides of the triangle from Schnabel- waid and Weiden carried enough Amer- ican monarchs to be considered thrice royaL At the Fantasie, one day, I looked up from my wine to see two ex- cabinet ministers of the United States shaking hands, and when I went to Angermanns for my beer in the even- ing, I found a place at a table around which a publisher, novelist, poet, paint- er, and critic had gathered. They had forgotten their natural antagonisms and were discussing the ethical problem set by Parsifal as earnestly as if it had a more vital bearing on American literature and art than either McKinley or Copy- right BilL An itinerant essayist and peripatetic humorist, of whom I had caught furtive glimpses, were not in the party. The former had probably not recovered from the fatigue caused by his carrying home the keys with which he had been invested by his lodgings keeper on his arrivaL Those keys were too large for his pockets; so he carried them in his hands and exhibited them proudly as antiquities dating back to the period of Bayreuths splendor under the old Margraves. This, to the door of my lodgings; this to the gates of the town! As for the humorist, he was doing Bayreuth witL enough impedi- menta in gowns to keep him supernat- urally solemn, and at a pace which did not allow his feet to come in contact with the ground. The visitors who came and went dur- ing the month numbered, let me say, about 25,000, of whom ~4,500 had tickets for the festival plays in their pockets, bought in advance at the rate of five dollars for each representation. The ticketless five hundred chanced it, either buying the precious pasteboards from speculative headwaiters at prices ranging from seven dollars and a half to twenty dollars, or waiting for an oppor- tunity to be booked for the gallery above the lamps, for which privilege the management, most uncompromis- ingly democratic in this particular, exacted five dollars a seat. The sum which these patient pilgrims paid into the exchequer of the Richard Wagner Theatre is reported at between $165,- 000 and $200,000. Tannh~user was this year added to the Bayreuth list, being associated BAYREUTH REVISITED. BA YREUTH REVISITED. 99 with Parsifal and Tristan und significance of which is obvious in view Isolde. The old opera was decked out of the disaffection aroused by the last with brave clothes, at a cost, it is said festival, the world would not hear as (the statement is calculated to stretch much as it does about the latter-day even a Wagnerites credulity), of $125,- representations in the out-of-the-way 000. Felix Mottl and his forces did town. Fifteen years ago the spectacle some extraordinary things with its mu- presented by the first festival was so sicthings that were more extraordi- unique and extraordinary in the history nary than excellent, indeed and Ma- of music and the drama, that it was only dame Wagner disclosed some of her the performance of an obvious and im- ideas touching the familiar work. For perative journalistic duty to care for the the chief impersonator of the sainted curiosity and interest which had been Elizabeth of the play, she brought for- excited throughout the cultured world. ward a young woman who was certified In 1882 the desire to report upon the to the public as just the age which one last drama created by the poet-compos- should be who would represent the hero- er, was an equally potent incentive to me. Just how old the representative of the journalistic fraternity. With the Elizabeth was, I did not take the trouble reports upon The Nibelungs Ring to learn. It was obvious enough that and Parsifal, however, the demands she was young and inexperienced, and we of necessity were satisfied, and since have Madame Wagners word for it that then only love for the works of Wagner, she was gifted with the lack of years and or a desire to study phases of artistic experience which Elizabeth had when development which the festivals dis- she became infatuated with the renegade close, has sent the professional reviewer lover of Dame Venus. The care be- for the press to Bayreuth. If then a stowed in searching out Fr~iulein Wi- grave doubt touching the present value borgs physical qualifications was calcu- of the festival enterprise has entered lated to make one forget Wagners hunt the minds of the German critics, it is for Rheingold giants sixteen years worth while to inquire into the cause of ago. Unhappily, Madame Wagner for- such a phenomenon. Such doubts have got consistency when she cast the other been expressed. To the casual observer tragedy. Kurwenals chief representa- they seem to stand in a paradoxical re- tive had avoirdupois for two squires, lationship with their alleged causes. and the actor who essayed the part of Elements which, at first blush, would Tristan lacked at least six inches of the seem to make for good, are looked stature essential to belief in the story upon as in the highest degree disturb- that he could worst a score of King ing. Such elements are the financial Marks knights and contumeliously success of the festivals; the ever-grow- apply his sword fiatlings, as Sir Tho- ing popular interest in them, especially mas Malory says, to that monarchs among the people of the United States person. and Great Britain; the influence of But in spite of the things which to the Wagners principles of construction on common eye seemed to make for the contemporaneous composition, even in greatest success ever achieved at Bay- France and Italy. Practically, anti- reuth, the Inner Brotherhood at Anger- Wagnerism is only a phrase; it stands manns, and the Mahatmas from Leip- for nothing. There is no longer an sic and elsewhere, shook their heads effective opposition to Wagner. Its last mournfully and said that for Bayreuth, bulwark, the chauvinism of the Paris- Ragnar6k was not far away. Since ians, has gone down before Lohengrin. then they have printed their plaints. Criticism of his principles and methods And thereby hangs a tale. continues to be written; but the sanest and best of it fails to arrest the current As a rule, the writers for the press of Wagners popularity, or check his who attend the festivals at Bayreuth are influence among music students. In admirers of the dramas of Richard Wag- this we have but a repetition of the ner and upholders of his artistic prin- spectacle, which is as old as the world, ciples. If it were not for this fact, the of the impotence of obstructive argu 100 BA YREUTH REVISITED. ment, of all criticism, indeed, in the presence of a vital art-work. Wagners influence for good in the encouragement of sincerity of purpose and truthfulness of representation is universally con- ceded; his influence in emancipating the lyric drama from silly conventions, which long stood in the way of natural- ness and truth, may be seen in the com- positions which come from Vienna, Paris, Milan, London, and St. Peters- burg. Think of Cavalleria Rusticana in Italy, twenty years ago! The one unsolved question in the case goes to the value of Wagner as a model of style. Here there is room for controversy, and one might go so far as to say that the effect of his example has been, not only to stifle spontaneity and put reflection in its place, but even to put a clog upon all creative activity in the field of the lyric drama, without being a traitor to the Wagnerian cause. The bow of Ulysses is not to be bent by every suitor for the hand of Penelope. It is some- times hard to find the boundary line between spontaneous invention and the fruit of reflection in Wagners works; they often overlap each other. In Tristan und Isolde the music sounds most spontaneous when he is hewing most closely to the lineof his construc- tive theories. Besides, all creative geni- uses are not good models. Bismareks diplomatic methods, Carlyles diction, cannot be imitated successfully by men of less original strength. But peers ought not and will not be imitators. Wagners only worthy successor must be one as original as he; for him the world must wait. The feeling of uiirest, among some of the most aggressive friends of Wag- ners art, which has been visible of late was not born in Bayreuth, last summer. It is much older. Nor has the full ex- tent of the disaffection found vent in open utterance and conduct. Many eminent men who were identified close- ly with the Bayreuth enterprise while Wagner was living, are inactive in the premises now. In one instance, doubly noteworthy because of the reputation of the man and the violence of both mani- festations, a most energetic champion was transformed into a recklessly vi- rulent opponent. In 1876, Frederich Nietzsche, formerly Professor of Classi- cal Philology at the University of Basel, considered Wagner not merely the dis- coverer of a new art, but of art itself and its true relation to human society. He was a philosopher, historian, ~esthetician, critic, master of language, mythologist and inytho-poet. It seemed at least a debatable point in the mind of the en- thusiastic professor, whether a visit to Bayreuth was not enough in itself to furnish an affirmative answer to the question whether life was at all worth living. In 1888, the same man doubted whether Wagner was either dramatist or musician. He did not know whether or not the god of his previous idolatry was entitled to be called a German, or even a man (Jlliensch). He was sure however, that he was a modern Gag- liostro who had made music ill, a master of hypnotic tricks. His mu- sic was endlessness without melody, the gymnastics of ugliness on the tight-rope of unharmony, his characters a gallery of invalids. Bayreuth was grand opera, and not even good grand opera. In this instance, a discrediting personal equation was too obvious to require demonstration, but the violence with which Professor Nietzsche pro- claimed his apostasy remained inexplic- able, until the news of his mental de- rangement followed hard on the heels of his book, Der Fall Wagner. To complete the spectacle, a critic who had been relegated by the Wagnerites to the ranks of their enemies, now came forward as the champion of Wagner against Nietzsche. It was an easy task for Eduard Kulke to show that the book of 1888 was as illogical as the book of 1876. Some other noteworthy instances have been in a different case. Five years ago 1V[oritz Wirth, an enthusiastic adherent of the Wagnerian cause, said that Bay- reuth was doomed. To save what he conceived it to represent, he urged the establishment of five theatres, in as many European cities, for the purpose of giving model representations of Wag. ners dramas. Herr Wirth was again at Bayreuth last summer, and at the meeting of the General Richard Wag- ner Verein, he was the most uncompro- mising of the critics of the festival man- BA YREUTH REVISITED. 101 agement. He is probably engaged now in the preparation of the pamphlet which at the meeting he threatened to publish, the character of which may be guessed from the title: The Circus at Bayreuth. In a pamphlet written by Dr. Paul Marsop, another eminent dis- ciple of Wagner, it is argued that the Bayreuth festivals are worthless and needless. In the true spirit of pes- simism, Dr. Marsop urges that noth- ing be done to prevent them from has- tening on to that Nirvana which, in the philosophy held by Wagner, is the true goal of all things. These three men illustrate three of the view-points of Bayreuth criticism, the personal and physical, the artistic, and the philosophical. The most thorough- ly consistent, perhaps, is the last. The popularity of Wagners works means nothing to Dr. Marsop, for it is a phe- nomenon which is paralleled by the popularity of Der Trompeter von Si~kkingen. In this reflection Wagner anticipated him, using the same illus- tration. Had he lived to see the rise of Mascagni, he would have had even a more striking instance to advance. Marsop is simply a Tolstoi in music there is nothing to do except to wait for the end of all things. Here, too, he is a true disciple of his master in his lat- ter days, who writing to Friedrich Sch~5n in the last year of his life, used this extraordinary language: I no longer believe in music, and when I meet it I turn away as a matter of principle. If the prediction of our friend, Count Go- bineau, should be fulfilled, Europe be overrun in ten years by Asiatic hordes, and all our civilization and culture be destroyed, I would not twitch an eye; for then I might believe that, before anything else, our present music-mak- ing would go by the board. Herr Wirths pugnacity is due to the strained relations between the repre- sentatives of Wagner, the man, and sev- eral of the Richard Wagner societies, es- pecially that at Leipsic, of which Herr Wirth is an influential member. Ma- dame Wagner and Councillor Gross have assumed the artistic and business man- agement of the festivals, and carry them on as a private enterprise. The theatre, built by the gifts of King Ludwig II. VOL. XI.1O of Bavaria and the contributions of the old Society of Patrons, they say, is the personal property of Wagners heirs; whatever interest the Society may once have had, was extinguished by its fail- ure to rescue Wagner from the finan- cial dilemma in which the festival of 1876 left him. The present General Richard Wagner Verein, which is the successor of the Society of Patrons, organized on a plan proposed by Wagner for the pur- pose of building the theatre and pro- ducing The Nibelungs Ring, has been informed by Madame Wagner that it has nothing to do with the festivals, which belong now to the public; it lives to disseminate the ideas embodied in the writings of Wagner. The Society has a different view of its mission, de- rived from Article I. of its constitution, and the fact that it sends thirty-five per centum of all money collected by it to Bayreuth, to be applied to the payment of the expenses of impecunious mu- sicians who wish to attend the festivals. For its own tickets the Society in effect pays three times as much as the tourist, who does the festival in the same spirit as he does a bull-fight in Spain. A decadence in the festival may be charged, and its nature inquired into, without going so far as to charge that the mission of Bayreuth has been sunk in the desire to transform it into a money-making institution for the fam- ily of Wagner. The festivals have in- deed changed in purpose since 1876, but the change was suggested by Wag- ner. Theyhave degenerated artistically, but this decadence, inevitable as soon as the death of Wagner removed him from the artistic management, has been hastened by the assumption of supreme authority on the part of his widow. The bond between Wagner and the Society which for a decade helped him to execute his vast scheme, was a senti- mental one. So far as that bond seemed to imply a privileged relationship of the Society toward his institution, Wagner severed it when he began his prepara- tions for the second festivaL Whether by his own flat he could relieve him- self of the great obligation under which he rested, need not be discussed here. He exacted, not only devotion to his principles, but also affection for his per- 102 BA YREUTH REVISITED. son, from those whom he called his friends, and he received both in gener- ous measure. He is still receiving both devotion and affection, though some of those friends think that ingratitude, as well as incompetency, is undermining the fabric which they helped him to build. All this has less bearing on the artistic question involved than the fact that, with the accomplishment in 1876 of the purpose which had animated him for over a quarter of a century, Wagner entered upon a course in which it is scarcely possible to avoid seeing a loss in consistency of conduct, as well as ideality of purpose. The story of that change seems to point the old moral, that suffering is essential to true artis- tic production. Even Wagner was no exception to the rule that worldly pros- perity is subversive of ideality in art. The festival project is contemporan- eous in origin with The Nibelungs Ring. Strictly speaking, it is a little older, for when he first conceived a per- formance of his work under artistic con- ditions like those which prevailed at Bayreuth in 1876, Wagner had only a single drama, Siegfrieds Death, in mind. In a letter written to his friend Uhlig, in September, 1850, he sets down the completion of that work and its performance as the conscious mission of his life. He wanted ten thousand thalers. With this sum he would build a rough theatre at Zurich (where he was then living in exile), furnish it with the necessary scenery and machines, organ- ize a chorus of amateurs, invite orches- tral musicians, select his singers, and invite the world to a dramatic festivaL All who would show enough interest to come to Zurich should be admitted without money or price, but a special invitation was to issue to the young people of Zurich, the university, and the choral unions. After three perform- ances of Siegfrieds Death had been given in one week, the theatre was to be torn down, and the score of the drama burnt. To those who had been pleased with the thing I should then say: Now do likewise. But if they wanted something new from me, I should say: You get the money. For the next few years his mind is full of the plan. His single drama grows into a tetralogy, and with it the scope of his festival. To attain his end of creating what he conceives to be an ideal work and giving it an ideal representation, he longs to sever all connection with the contemporary stage. To do things by halves becomes a martyrdom ; with his new conception, he withdraws entirely from all connection with our theatre and public of to - day, breaks decisively and forever with the formal present. His earlier works were now intolerable to his thoughts. He asked nothing from them, save that they should bring him money; the desire of managers to produce them was to him disgusting ; his consent to yield them up to commonplace performance for gain he called his prostitution. That was Wagners ideal in the day of his adversity, nor did it change after the favor of King Ludwig told him to hope for its realization. Artistic neces- sity was still to determine everything. The theatres of Germany had degener- ated under foreign influences till they could not do justice to a work of strong native originality. The corrupted taste of the ignorant public was tending to the demoralization of the theatres. A festival performance of The Nibel- ungs Ring was therefore a necessity. Such a consummation, however, was possible only with the help of the friends who loved him. He called for the or- ganization of a Society of Patrons, and it came into being. The theatre was built, the first festival given. It left him in debt, and he was disappointed in his expectation that the Imperial Government would establish the thea- tre firmly by granting it a subvention as a national institution. He abandoned his plan to repeat the festival and sur- rendered the tetralogy to the theatres which in his opinion could not do justice to it. In a review of the festival he laid stress upon the failure of his plan to prevent the sale of tickets just as they are at any opera-house, or to give him a public different from the ordinary opera public with the usual admixt- ure of the critics, who to him were an abomination. Yet an overwhelming majority of the visitors of 1876 were the friends who had strained every nerve to enable Wagner to perform his miracle. BA YREUTH REVISITED. 103 Ii l~0 Wagner has other notions in his head. His tetralogy has been sacri- ficed to the theatres, but he has a theatre of his own and the prestige of having accomplished all that he had dreamed of twenty-five years before and more. He now conceives the plan of a series of festivals at which all of his works are to be performed, and as a first step he for- gets his antipathy to the general public. Upon the success of the performances, to be confined for the present to Parsi- fal, the procurement of the means for producing gradually all his works is to be left dependent, and a faithful compa- ny of patrons is to assume the duty of preserving the correct spirit of the per- formances for the friends of his art, even after his death. He confessed his obli- gation to the Society of Patrons for having founded his enterprise, which he felt he could now continue by appealing in the ordinary manner to the public. Two reasons led him to take this step with Parsifal : the reservation of the work for Bayreuth would guarantee its profitableness. That was an external reason; but there was also an internal one: Parsifal was a work of such unique character that the festivalswould have an educational value: by partici- pating in them, young singers would learn the elements of the new style of lyr- ico-dramatic representation, and would escape the danger which lay in their precipitation into a field already spoiled by bad habits the field, for instance, occupied by his older operas, whose man- ner of representation was subject to the ordinary operatic r6gime. For himself he was unwilling to attempt the task of preparing model performances of his older works; experience had taught him that the exertion would be useless. To the Society of Patrons he suggested a reorganization which would limit its direct connection with the festival to the provision of means to save the poorer portion of the public from exclusion by the rich, a contingency which he foresaw would result from the adoption of the ordinary showmans methods against which he had railed after the festival of 1876. The organized patrons of his art- work were now to become organized patrons of the public a Charity Soci- ety. In one respect Madame Wagner has been harshly accused. I am unable to see that she has done aught with the mission of Bayreuth than administer the trust bequeathed to her by her hus- band. How she has administered it is another question. After the manifesta- tions of last summer I can see only a speedy collapse of the proud edifice; but the seeds of destruction are not all of her sowing; Wagner scattered them broadcast when he set a new purpose for the festivals and died. All would be different were he still alive. His participation would insure a stand- ard of representation so high that com- petition with the operatic establishments of the world, in the performance of works open to them all, would benefit rather than injure the festivals. His death threw the directors and perform- ers on tradition as the conservator of his artistic intentions. Tradition is a weak reed in the best of cases, and pe- culiarly liable to become treacherous when a person of strong individuality, like Madame Wagner, constitutes her- self its sole repository and oracle. An early effect was seen in the estrangement of Hans Richter, Wagners ablest and most zealous coadjutor in the early festivals, because of disagreements with the widow concerning tern pi. An- other effect was seen last summer in the representations of Tannh~iuser. This opera was always the most be- loved of Wagners older brain-children. Doubtless much of the favoritism with which he regarded it was due to the abuse which it received in the Ger- man opera-houses. In its performance he exacted so much that, as late as 1870, he said that he knew of no capable rep- resentative of the titular r6le. The performance at Bayreuth last summer was a delight to the eye. There were pretty pictures in plenty. But if pretty pictures make Tannhiiuser, Wagners despair at ever seeing a correct perform- ance was hypocritical, and his criti- cisms of the Parisian performance of 1861 dishonest. There are settings of Tannh~user in Dresden and Vienna to-day which compare favorably with the new ones at Bayreuth. In produc- ing the opera last summer, Madame Wagner essayed a task from which her 104 ARMISTICE. husband shrunk in 1882. She measured her talent with his genius, and the re- sult cannot be summed up more truth- fully or sententiously than in the words which came, three years ago, from the embittered and deranged mind of Fried- rich Nietzsche: Tannhi~user was grand opera, and not even good grand opera. Not one of the spiritual wants which Wagner deplored, even in the representations superintended by him- self, was supplied. A crude and wofully materialistic interpretation was given to the suggestions contained in his bro- chure On the Representation of Taun- hiiuser. The tempi were dragged till ones patience was tried to the extreme verge of endurance; the players on wind instruments in the orchestra vied with the singers on the stage in tearing the musical phrases to tatters, in the belief that thereby they were heeding Wag- ners advice to phrase vocally. Iii a com- position written to a great extent in the old-fashioned lyric vein, Madame Wag- ner compelled her fledglings to declaim in the manner contemplated by Wagner in Parsifal, which, in her conception, seemed to mean the pursuit of every con- sonant to the death. Faithful friends of Wagner were amazed and aggrieved. Musicians who had come to learn were disgusted by these things, while the care- less tourists from afar were set to won- dering what they had come out for to see. For the first time in the history of the festivals, Wagners friends had to hear comparisons between Bayreuth an~I the contemned court and municipal theatres of Germany. Such comparisons are a deathblow to the interest repre- sented by the tourists. It is said that the managers of the German opera- houses have threatened to withhold from their singers the privilege of sing- ing at Bayreuth. Such a step would be foolish, because useless. Bayreuth will no longer be a rival to their establish- ments the moment it becomes one. Which is another paradox like the proof of Bayreuths decadence in the signs of her prosperity. ARMiSTICE. By Ellen Burroughs. THE water sings along our keel, The wind falls to a whispering breath; I look into your eyes and feel No fear of life or death; So near is love, so far away The losing strife of yesterday. We watch the swallows skim and dip; Some magic bids the world be still; Life stands with finger upon lip; Love hath his gentle will; Though hearts have bled, and tears have burned, The river floweth unconcerned. We pray the fickle flag of truce Still float deceitfully and fair; Our eyes must love its sweet abuse; This hour we will not care, Though just beyond to-morrows gate, Arrayed and strong, the battle wait.

104 ARMISTICE. husband shrunk in 1882. She measured her talent with his genius, and the re- sult cannot be summed up more truth- fully or sententiously than in the words which came, three years ago, from the embittered and deranged mind of Fried- rich Nietzsche: Tannhi~user was grand opera, and not even good grand opera. Not one of the spiritual wants which Wagner deplored, even in the representations superintended by him- self, was supplied. A crude and wofully materialistic interpretation was given to the suggestions contained in his bro- chure On the Representation of Taun- hiiuser. The tempi were dragged till ones patience was tried to the extreme verge of endurance; the players on wind instruments in the orchestra vied with the singers on the stage in tearing the musical phrases to tatters, in the belief that thereby they were heeding Wag- ners advice to phrase vocally. Iii a com- position written to a great extent in the old-fashioned lyric vein, Madame Wag- ner compelled her fledglings to declaim in the manner contemplated by Wagner in Parsifal, which, in her conception, seemed to mean the pursuit of every con- sonant to the death. Faithful friends of Wagner were amazed and aggrieved. Musicians who had come to learn were disgusted by these things, while the care- less tourists from afar were set to won- dering what they had come out for to see. For the first time in the history of the festivals, Wagners friends had to hear comparisons between Bayreuth an~I the contemned court and municipal theatres of Germany. Such comparisons are a deathblow to the interest repre- sented by the tourists. It is said that the managers of the German opera- houses have threatened to withhold from their singers the privilege of sing- ing at Bayreuth. Such a step would be foolish, because useless. Bayreuth will no longer be a rival to their establish- ments the moment it becomes one. Which is another paradox like the proof of Bayreuths decadence in the signs of her prosperity. ARMiSTICE. By Ellen Burroughs. THE water sings along our keel, The wind falls to a whispering breath; I look into your eyes and feel No fear of life or death; So near is love, so far away The losing strife of yesterday. We watch the swallows skim and dip; Some magic bids the world be still; Life stands with finger upon lip; Love hath his gentle will; Though hearts have bled, and tears have burned, The river floweth unconcerned. We pray the fickle flag of truce Still float deceitfully and fair; Our eyes must love its sweet abuse; This hour we will not care, Though just beyond to-morrows gate, Arrayed and strong, the battle wait. By Graham R. Tomson. FAR down in the deep, black water A golden lanthorn swings, Whose lustre widens and trembles As tremble the water rings. Above, on the purple twilight The moon in her glory shows, Bnt still with a mellower splendor The lamp in the water glows. Like a love-lamp set in a window On a starless summer night, Steadfast it gleams and beckons, A jewel of amber light. Steadfast it points and beckons, And ever the self-same way, For it hangs at the gate of a palace That knows not the light of day. The great elms leafy branches Stretch over the waters brink, Where deep in their sheltering hollows The shadows in shadows sink. But the gold lamp in the water It glimmers and beckons bright, Like a love-lamp set in a window On a murky snmmer night. For him who would rise and follow Full smooth is the path, and straight, The way throngh the glistening water That leads to the palace gate. And he who shall cross the threshold No more shall he strive nor weep, Being come to the Tower of Silence, In the Valley of Endless Sleep. THE LAMP IN THE POOL. VOL. XI.11

By Graham R. Tomson. FAR down in the deep, black water A golden lanthorn swings, Whose lustre widens and trembles As tremble the water rings. Above, on the purple twilight The moon in her glory shows, Bnt still with a mellower splendor The lamp in the water glows. Like a love-lamp set in a window On a starless summer night, Steadfast it gleams and beckons, A jewel of amber light. Steadfast it points and beckons, And ever the self-same way, For it hangs at the gate of a palace That knows not the light of day. The great elms leafy branches Stretch over the waters brink, Where deep in their sheltering hollows The shadows in shadows sink. But the gold lamp in the water It glimmers and beckons bright, Like a love-lamp set in a window On a murky snmmer night. For him who would rise and follow Full smooth is the path, and straight, The way throngh the glistening water That leads to the palace gate. And he who shall cross the threshold No more shall he strive nor weep, Being come to the Tower of Silence, In the Valley of Endless Sleep. THE LAMP IN THE POOL. VOL. XI.11 FIRST PAPER. may be divided into two groups: first, those which depict manners and customs and the life of men and beasts; second, those in which mens thoughts and creations ~dready given to the world in another form, as in literature and tradition, are taken and used as subjects by the artist. The earliest illustrations are as old as writ- ing, and are indeed symbolic writings recording the social, religious, and po- litical life of the people. The Egyptian and Phomician figures carved on blocks of stone, the pictures on Greek vases, and the wall-paintings at Pompeii are illustrations. All these belong in the first group. What we mean when we speak of il- lustrations to - day are included in the second group, and, unlike the earlier works which exist only in a single ex- ample, the artists designs are multi- plied a thousand - fold by the various processes of reproduction. Du Halde is authority for the statement that the Chinese printed pictures from plates or blocks as early as 1120 B.c. In the West we find the Italians printing from blocks in 1285, the Germans making prints of saints at the beginning of the fifteenth century, and Finiguerra using copper plates in Ylorence in 1461. The paint- er Botticelli gave his attention to cop- per-plate engraving, and others followed his example. Since the days of Albert Dfirer and the Italian Renaissance, painters have been drawing for repro- duction, until at the present time half of all those who use the brush have worked more or less in the field of il- lustration, as we use the~ term, and some have made in it reputations that out- shine those gained in painting pictures. We have many worthy artists who do nothing but illustrations, and who rarely paint a picture or draw in color. In the liJuited States great progress has been made in the past twelve or fifteen years. Some of the best of our paint- ers have devoted a large part of their time to illustration, and the work done by the illustrators the artists who work almost exclusively in black and white for the magazines and illustrated journalshas steadily improved in qual- ity. To-day illustration is the regular profession of a host of men and women, the gagne-pain of a number of painters, who find in it a source of income that permits them to paint pictures accord- ing to their individual tastes, without re- gard to the question of popularity with the public; and the serious occupation of others who find in some work of poe- try or fiction subjects with which their temperament is in sympathy, and an op- portunity to make drawings that are in no sense to be confounded with what is known as hack work, even when it is of such excellence that it seems unjust to apply to it a name that suggests in itself a lack of true artistic interest. By William A. Coffin.

FIRST PAPER. may be divided into two groups: first, those which depict manners and customs and the life of men and beasts; second, those in which mens thoughts and creations ~dready given to the world in another form, as in literature and tradition, are taken and used as subjects by the artist. The earliest illustrations are as old as writ- ing, and are indeed symbolic writings recording the social, religious, and po- litical life of the people. The Egyptian and Phomician figures carved on blocks of stone, the pictures on Greek vases, and the wall-paintings at Pompeii are illustrations. All these belong in the first group. What we mean when we speak of il- lustrations to - day are included in the second group, and, unlike the earlier works which exist only in a single ex- ample, the artists designs are multi- plied a thousand - fold by the various processes of reproduction. Du Halde is authority for the statement that the Chinese printed pictures from plates or blocks as early as 1120 B.c. In the West we find the Italians printing from blocks in 1285, the Germans making prints of saints at the beginning of the fifteenth century, and Finiguerra using copper plates in Ylorence in 1461. The paint- er Botticelli gave his attention to cop- per-plate engraving, and others followed his example. Since the days of Albert Dfirer and the Italian Renaissance, painters have been drawing for repro- duction, until at the present time half of all those who use the brush have worked more or less in the field of il- lustration, as we use the~ term, and some have made in it reputations that out- shine those gained in painting pictures. We have many worthy artists who do nothing but illustrations, and who rarely paint a picture or draw in color. In the liJuited States great progress has been made in the past twelve or fifteen years. Some of the best of our paint- ers have devoted a large part of their time to illustration, and the work done by the illustrators the artists who work almost exclusively in black and white for the magazines and illustrated journalshas steadily improved in qual- ity. To-day illustration is the regular profession of a host of men and women, the gagne-pain of a number of painters, who find in it a source of income that permits them to paint pictures accord- ing to their individual tastes, without re- gard to the question of popularity with the public; and the serious occupation of others who find in some work of poe- try or fiction subjects with which their temperament is in sympathy, and an op- portunity to make drawings that are in no sense to be confounded with what is known as hack work, even when it is of such excellence that it seems unjust to apply to it a name that suggests in itself a lack of true artistic interest. By William A. Coffin. Into the green-recessed woods they flew. (From a drawing by Will H. Low, to illustrate Keatss Lamia. By permission of the artist and the J. B. Lippincoth Co.) 108 AMERICAN ILLUSTRATION OF TO-DAY. In considering the subject of illustra- tion we must say a word at the outset about the dictum of certain critics, who maintain that illustration, as such, is un- necessary, and that it is bad art. If an idea or a scene is portrayed in words, they contend, what reason is there for another man to attempt to do it over again in another form? If in a poem, a play, or a story, a thing is well done, the illustration will be inferior, or in a few cases, perhaps, it will be better as a work of art than the text which furnished the subject. In the first case the de- signers work is superfluous, in the sec- ond the picture will live, and the orig- inal in its literary form will be forgotten, for the world will not want both. If this is not plain, reverse the proposition and fancy a man writing a poem about a picture. What can he tell that is not already told on the canvas, and how can he express in words what the artist has only been able to convey to the senses by means of form and color? This is a specious argument, but it is not a sound one. While it may be true that a good deal of the current illustration is inferior, it serves a useful purpose in the propagation of a love of art among people who would not without it see any whatever worthy of the name. Wood- cuts and photo-gravures from the de- signs of competent artists, in the illus- trated papers and magazines, are far better food for the people in homes dis- tant from the art-centres, than the cheap chroinos and cheaper steel engravings that used to be about all there was in such houses in the way of pictures of any description. The relative merit of the illustration and its subject in litera- ture are not in question. In our own country, at least, it is indisputable that more has been done through the medi- um of illustrated literature to make the masses of the people realize that there is such a thing as art, and that it is worth caring about, than in any other way. As to the best work in the field of illustration, when the artist has found in literature something that appeals to him as a subject he would like to treat in pictorial form, we are not forced to decide which is in our opinion the bet- ter, the authors word picture or the ar- tists interpretation of it. No better ex ample of this can be found than Mr. Abbeys delightful drawings illustrating Herricks poems. We shall not forget the sweet lines of Herrick because we have seen the charming pictures the ar- tist has made to go with them, and if we remember best the poems, we shall not for that reason be blind to the beau- ty of the drawings. We shall have two things that please us where we had but one before. Further than this, a very large part of the worlds art is illustra- tion. Pictures depicting religions and historical subjects, even the frescoes of the Vatican, are in one sense illustrations. All the works of art in the great galler- ies, in which the subjects are drawn froffi mythology and legend, are illustrations in the same way. The only essential point of difference from what we call il- lustrations in our time, is that they were not made to accompany a text. Half the subjects that artists have treated, from the old masters down, have been drawn from literature in one form or another, and it is only in portraits, genre, and still life, and in our modern schools of landscape painting and p1cm air treatment of figures, that the subjects have been found in nature. In the United States the most serious work in illustration has been done by men already well known as painters of the figure. The two volumes of Keatss poems, Lamia and Odes and Son- nets, with drawings by Will H. Low; Dante Gabriel Rossettis The Blessed IDamozel, illustrated by Kenyon Cox; and The Rub6iy~t of Omar Khayy~m, with decorative designs by Elihu Ved- der, have contributed as much as their work in painting to the reputations of the artists. Mr. Low had already done a considerable amount of magazine and book illustration when he began, in 1885, the series of drawings for Lamia, and enjoyed among his fellow-artists a repu- tation as a good draughtsman and a painter of refined sensibility. The illus- tration of Lamia was a project that he conceived himself and proposed to his publishers. The idea being well re- ceived by them and the commission given, he entered upon his work with enthusiasm, and for a year and more made it his chief, almost his sole, artis- tic occupation. The drawings, taken to- A Dedication. (From a drawing by Will H. Low in Keatss Odes and Sonnets. By permission of the artist and the J. B. Lippincott Co.) 110 AMERICAN ILLUSTRATION OF TO-DAY~ gether, form a harmonious series that, so far as illustrating the poem go, is very satisfactory. The choice of subjects for the illustrations has been made by the artist with excellent judgment, and in his treatment of them he gives evidence of a sympathetic appreciation of the poets thought. There are thirty-eight drawings in the book, including titles and head and tail pieces, and the design for the cover is a charming piece of decorative work. The drawings are of unequal merit, but most of them deserve praise for beauty of conception and cleverness in the execution. It is only in a few cases that the reproach of con- ventionality of treatment may justly be made. Of some of the drawings in- serted in the text, it may be said that from the shape of the designs one would expect them to be treated decora- tively, and not in a purely pictorial man- ner. The picture for the line, And shut the chamber up, close, hushd and still, for example, is a narrow band across the page and it is not composed within its limits. The right way to use such spaces is shown in such designs as I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes, which, with its single figure of Hermes descending through the clouds, is complete in itself; or in What wreath for Lamia? what for Lycius? what for the sage, old Apollonius? where it is used as simple decoration without en- closing outlines. The best composition in Mr. Lows Lamia is the picture Into the green-recessed woods they flew. The two figures are admirable in line, and the group is exceedingly well arranged and good in movement. There is a drawing in the Odes and Sonnets that shows Mr. Low at his very best. It is the one that accom- panies the Ode to Psyche. The nude figure of Psyche recumbent on the grass by the brook-side, is a marvel of delicacy and grace, beautiful in line and subtly modelled, and the figure of Cupid at her side is made subordinate, without losing importance in the group, with fine artis- tic feeling. The landscape setting is charmingly composed, the masses of light and dark skilfully distributed, and the ensemble is effective without being forced. The dedication to the Odes and Sonnets is the finest decorative page in the book, and one of the best things of its kind in modern art, shar- ing in this distinction with Mr. Coxs dedication in The Blessed Damozel. Throughout the series of drawings in this book, Mr. Low shows that he has overcome certain faults that were to be noted here and there in the earlier work, and there is a decided gain in decora- tive spirit. In soundness of execution and elegance of style, these drawings rank easily with the best modern work in the field of creative illustration. Mr. Lows drawings for the two books were made in body-color and in mono- tint, of course, and are reproduced by a photographic process. Even in the very best of these processes something is lost in the reproduction, more in some drawings than in others, but al- ways something. Taking the pictures, however, as they stand in the printed books, the artists chief characteristics are seen to be refinement and elegance of line in drawing the figure, a poetical feeling for landscape, and a genuine talent for composition. In his techni- cal expression he is sometimes too mindful of detail, but he never sins in the other direction by carelessness and affectation of breadth. In such draw- ings as the Psyche, in the Odes and Sonnets, where his little faults do not exist and his great merits are seen in their happiest expression, we find him to be an artist whose intention is seri- ous and intelligent, and whose methods are direct and unaffected. Moreover, though one does not need to be a scholar to be a good painter, it is indis- pensable to be master of ones subjects when one undertakes such a work as the illustration of the two books of Keatss poems we have just been con- sidering. A large part of it is purely creative, and it is gratifying to be able to say that, while we can praise Mr. Lows work from the artistic stand- point, we are also able to commend his scholarship whenever it comes into questionand that is a matter of no small consequence where the illustra- tion is of poems that allude to classical lore as much as do some of these beau- tiful lines of John Keats. The Blessed Damozel, by Dante Ga- briel Rossetti, with drawings by Kenyon We two will lie the shadow. (From a drawing by Kenyon Cox to illustrate Rossettis The Blessed Damozel. By permissiOn of the artist and Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co.) Some of her New Friendo. (From a drawing by Kenyon Cox, to illustrate lEtossettis The Blessed Damozel. By permission of the artist and Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co.) AMERICAN ILLUSTRATION OF TO-DAY. 113 Cox, appeared a year after the publica- tion of Mr. Lows series of drawings for Lamia, and though it is not our purpose to make comparisons between the two booksfor comparisons in art do not prove very muchit is worth not- ing that Mr. Cox followed Mr. Low in taking advantage of the opportunities his subjects offered him to essay the se- rious treatment of the nude figure. Not very much had been accomplished in this direction in illustrative art, in the United States, up to that time, with the exception of a few of the designs in Mr. Vedclers RubAiy6t of Omar Khay- yam, published in 1884. The origi- nals of Mr. Coxs drawings were paint- ed in oil in monotint, and the full page illustrations to the poem number thir- teen. There are seven other drawings that may be classed as decorative, and twenty-four initial letters drawn with the pen. In some of the work in this book Mr. Cox has attained to a very high level. Three of the drawings in particular are worthy of unqualified praise Some of her new friends, the beautiful group of three young women dancing on the sward; The stars sang in their spheres, three nude female figures admirable in line and chaste in treatment ; and With Love,~~ in which the conception is bold and orig- inal and very ably carried out. The last- named drawing is well done, not only in the sense that it is good from the tech- nical point of view, but also in the sense that such a conception as this new Eros, a pagan God of Love blessing a mar- riage in heaven, must needs carry in itself, in the way it is made to persuade us of the fitness of its presence, the justification on the part of the artist for its introduction. Considered as a picture without reference to the text, there would be no need of such justifi- cation; but the drawing is an illustra- tion, it must be remembered, and it is in just such a question as this that the thought of the artist becomes of the ut- most importance in dealing with it. In all of his pictures in this book, Mr. Cox has had to do with a niise-en-sc~nc that presented many difficulties in its repre- sentation. He has frankly made his heaven a place with tangible forms in architecture and landscape. He has discarded the old expedient of making clouds serve for all sorts of purposes, and gives us walls and casements, grass and trees, as we know them on earth. He has frequent occasion to introduce 1 ndscape, and he has adopted a sort of purist motive, suggestive of the early Renaissance, and which harmonizes ad- mirably with his figures, which are not etherealized, but solid and living, de- pending on natural beauty for their charm, and never falling into quaintness or weirdness through fancied idealiza- tion. His use of landscape in these pict- ures is especially good in the drawing, We two will lie i the shadow, where the carefully drawn foliage of spreading branches of trees and the flat meadow with a little stream winding through it, form a delightful setting for the group of two figures in the foreground. One of the finest of all the designs in the book is the dedication, with its two figures personifying the art of painting and the art of poetry. The figure of Poetry, in classic drapery, with uplifted head and a lyre in her hands, is possibly not unlike something we have seen be- fore, but the nude figure of Painting, a fine, ample type of woman with a wealth of hair and something typical of the splendid art of the Venetians in her face, is a real creation. The subject of the title drawing is a half-length figure of an angel drawing a bow across the strings of a violin. It is pure in line and beautiful in type. The lettering in this design also deserves commendation, and it may be said in passing, that wher- ever Mr. Coy, in the decorative part of his work, has had occasion to use letter- ing, he has adopted the elegant forms of the Italians. He in no case descends to anything resembling the fantastic characters which too many of our de- signers seem to fancy in some way especially fitted to decorative inscrip- tions. The pen drawings for initial letters are by long odds the best things of the kind that have come from the hand of an American artist. There is not space to speak of them separately, but of them all it is but just to say that they show great originality of concep- tion, a knowledge of the principles of design that very few artists possess, and a delicate though virile sense of beauty The Throne of Saturn. (From a drawing by Elilin Vedder, to illustrate the Rub~iy~it of Omar Kheyy~tm. By permission of the artist and Messrs. Houghton, Muffin & Co.) AMERICAN ILLUSTRATION OF TO-DAY. 115 in their execution. One which is in- tended to illustrate the lines: And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames, is quite as good in its way as anything in all modern art. Mr. Coxs work in The Blessed Damozel shows him to be a master of form. His drawing is in general firm and decisive, and founded on a thor- ough knowledge of construction. He has a rare talent for composition, and his work in this respect, while it does not violate sensible traditions and go to extremes in the search for novelty, is never such as to deserve the reproach of conventionality. In his treatment of the undraped figure, these drawings give proof of a right appreciation of the beauty of the nude, entirely free from the sort of vaporing refinement that the ignorant call idealization, and pos- sessing true purity in vitality and nat- uralism. His taste is sometimes at fault from the point of view of the layman, who is not accustomed to think always of the subject as a motive primarily in the artists eyes to make a picture of, but to think of the subject as the whole of the picture and disregard th~ technical achievement. These drawings, as well as many among the large number he has contributed to the monthly magazines and other publications, entitle him to rank among the very best of American artists who work in the field of illustra- tion. He has, among other things, signed some pen drawings representing animal groups in sculpture by Baryc, that for cleverness of technique and truthful and characteristic rendering of the spirit of the originals, are surpassed by nothing that anybody has done. The illustration of the Rub~iy~t of Omar Khayy~im by Elihu Vedder, is conceived in quite a different way from that in which Mr. Low and Mr. Cox proceeded in the works we have just been considering. The essential point of difference is that the illustrations, with the exception of two The Throne of Saturn, and The Record- ing Angel are not separate pictures, but designs composed in connection with portions of the text, enclosed with an outline, the composition being ar ranged as a sort of decorative border. In almost all of the fifty-six illustrated pages in Mr. Vedders book the figure is introduced, and the drawings are in chalk, reproduced in black and white and gray, with excellent effect. The chief interest in Mr. Vedders work lies, not in his drawing of the figure, for it is not, at least in these examples, of more than respectable quality, nor in the composition of pictures, nor iu any particular point of technical skill, but in the eminently decorative tendency of his illustrations. Even in The Throne of Saturn, which is a page apart from the text, the figure on the whirling globe with the encircling ring around it, is not the prime motive of the com- position, but only a part of it, and the spirit of the drawing is derived from the fine arrangement of the great curv- ing lines of the sphere and the ring. In The Recording Angel there is more interest in the mysterious face of the angel, perhaps, than in anything else, but it is not left to tell its own story. Hands reaching up from below to the desk before him, and a group of wings about his head and those of the two angels that appear on either side of him, are introduced in a decorative manner that does not comport with purely pictorial treatment. Mr. Ved- ders fancy finds enjoyment in twist- ing draperies, curling clouds of vapor, wreathes of vines, and curious forms of animal and vegetable matter with which he surrounds his figures. In one case it is a griffin-like monster with a womans head, The Inevitable Fate, lying upon a vast pile of skulls and bones; again, it is a wine cup, The Cup of Despair, placed in the midst of a whirl of fuming vapor; and again, the winged figure of a youth, Love affrighted at the sight of Hell, standing on a cloud, and a crowd of human shapes passing below him, with serpents twining about their necks. Sun, moon, and stars, men and angels, things earthly and things celes- tial, are brought together without co- herence, apparently, but yet it is not a jumble. The artist uses whatever he finds that is weird, when weirdness is his subject, caring little for probability, and bent only on strange and quaint effects. There is a very pretty figure The Present and the Past. (From a drawing by Eiihu Vedder, to illustrate the Rubsiiyftt of Omar Kh~yyf~m. By permission of the artist and Messrs. Hongliton, Muffin & Co.) THE DEAN OF BOURGES. 117 of a boy holding a conch-shell to his from his work in the Rub~iy~t as a ear in The Present and the Past, a designer of book-covers and other forms great deal of character and expression of decoration, that are marked by origi- in some of the heads in Deaths Re- nality of conception and execution. As view, a fine group of two figures in a painter he is noted for the individual- The Cup of Death, and much feeling ity with which he invests his themes, and harmony of line in some of the and to this quality more than to tech- other drawings. nical excellence he owes most of his Mr. Vedder is widely known, apart reputation. THE DEAN OF BOURGES. JUNE, 1891. By Barrett Wendell. OLD Felix Plat, dean of the church at Bourges, Lay quiet. Through the cool cathedral aisles Went strains of holy music. All the throng Of those that knew him in his gentle life Knelt, lifting up their souls in prayer to God For his, gone to Gods presence.Then the bells Clanging harmonious told the time was come To bear him to his everlasting rest. The red-coat beadles with their ringing staves Stalked solemn first; then red-robed, chanting boys; Then, grave and reverend, spectacled and laced, The bishop with his chapter; following on, The faithful, holy clergy, robed in black, Save one with shaven crown and sandalled feet, Brown robe and ropen girdle, down-cast eye, And visage grim with fasting. High amid The pious throng, a bier whereon reposed, Beneath the broidered glories of his pall, The good old man. And following him there came Bare-headed husbands with their crapen wives, Who keep alive the worthy name of Plat In sundry cities of the Nivernais; Then last the folk that loved his gentle life, Some weeping, silent some, some whispering. Down the cool aisle they passed. The central doors Groaned on their lazy hinges. Glorious light Of summer noon-day streamed beneath the Christ Who sits enthroned above the headless saints Twice martyred in his service. So the dean Passed from the church he gave his life to; turned In solemn pomp the corner of the porch; And down the hill-side, where gray buttresses Half block the way, lacing the noon-tide sun With lines of stony shadow, passed from sights Leaving the world of men. VOL. XL12

THE DEAN OF BOURGES. 117 of a boy holding a conch-shell to his from his work in the Rub~iy~t as a ear in The Present and the Past, a designer of book-covers and other forms great deal of character and expression of decoration, that are marked by origi- in some of the heads in Deaths Re- nality of conception and execution. As view, a fine group of two figures in a painter he is noted for the individual- The Cup of Death, and much feeling ity with which he invests his themes, and harmony of line in some of the and to this quality more than to tech- other drawings. nical excellence he owes most of his Mr. Vedder is widely known, apart reputation. THE DEAN OF BOURGES. JUNE, 1891. By Barrett Wendell. OLD Felix Plat, dean of the church at Bourges, Lay quiet. Through the cool cathedral aisles Went strains of holy music. All the throng Of those that knew him in his gentle life Knelt, lifting up their souls in prayer to God For his, gone to Gods presence.Then the bells Clanging harmonious told the time was come To bear him to his everlasting rest. The red-coat beadles with their ringing staves Stalked solemn first; then red-robed, chanting boys; Then, grave and reverend, spectacled and laced, The bishop with his chapter; following on, The faithful, holy clergy, robed in black, Save one with shaven crown and sandalled feet, Brown robe and ropen girdle, down-cast eye, And visage grim with fasting. High amid The pious throng, a bier whereon reposed, Beneath the broidered glories of his pall, The good old man. And following him there came Bare-headed husbands with their crapen wives, Who keep alive the worthy name of Plat In sundry cities of the Nivernais; Then last the folk that loved his gentle life, Some weeping, silent some, some whispering. Down the cool aisle they passed. The central doors Groaned on their lazy hinges. Glorious light Of summer noon-day streamed beneath the Christ Who sits enthroned above the headless saints Twice martyred in his service. So the dean Passed from the church he gave his life to; turned In solemn pomp the corner of the porch; And down the hill-side, where gray buttresses Half block the way, lacing the noon-tide sun With lines of stony shadow, passed from sights Leaving the world of men. VOL. XL12 118 THE DEAN OF BOURGES. In the olden time When Felix Plat was born, Napoleon Still mimicked Julius conquests, and the gaze Of calm Augustus Ca~sar. Far from Bourges The father, once some petty advocate, Followed the imperial eagles, hot with hope That from their spoil his hand might gather up A baton or a throne, like Bernadotte. The mother, prayerful, trembling, left in Bourges, Went day by day into the lofty church, Five-aisled, mysterious, devastated, stern, But speaking still, she knew not how but knew, Mute messages of older, purer days, Lost in the silence of the centuries, When men had been content to live and die Loyal to God and to the fleur-de-lys. So, heavy with the child, she knelt in prayer She dared not breathe to any but the saints, That peace and purity might come again To tired, sinful Europe. And her child Was born, and looked at her with wistful eyes Blue as the evening heavens, piliowed there Beside her in the darkened room. Whereat She smiled a message, how she dreamt her boy Should do God service, not the Emperor. So when came tidings from the frozen East That she was widowed, whilst Napoleon Rode home from flaming Moscow, mid the plains Of white, unvanquished Russia swallowing up His dream imperial, she saw God at work; And, though she loved him well whose time was come Still far from throne or baton, clasped her child, And bore him to the church, wherein behind The arches of the altar, in the aisle Where glass like northern sunsets makes the light Throughout the ages dimly glorious, She made him kneel, teaching his baby lips To prattle prayer like hers for peace to come. But peace came not to France. The longed-for king Dabbled in Horace till the Hundred Days Scared him from classics and his capital. Then red-coat island folk, at Waterloo, Drove stout Napoleon, island-born, to the isle Whence could be no return; and Europe, free From one invading stranger, dared divide His toppling conquests. Gods anointed now Trod in their fathers footsteps; nothing learned Nor aught forgotten, led the way again To what they once had fled from. All the while, In quiet Bourges, the mother with her son Grew with the years togetheraged she, He manfuland together in the church THE DEAN OF BOLIRGES. 119 Knelt day by day, in prayer for peace to come. The tall gray arches twixt the pillared aisles, The cool gray vaults, the glory of the glass Wherefrom, as from the heavens, stare the saints, He grew to know for Gods mute messengers Of what hath been on earth; prophetic, too, Of what may be, would man but lift his eyes Godward again. The noisy world without Made his heart faint. For, even in sleepy Bourges, The hoydens of the chaffering market-place, The tramping soldiery with their rattling drums, The trotting lawyers with their serviettes, And bustling sin and passion imaged all The devils work on earth. Yet when he passed Sad to the five-arched portal, where the saints Gather in stony myriads at the feet Of Christ triumphant, still he knew the faith That what hath been on earth shall be again. So when to him, grown manful, came the time To choose what path his mortal feet should tread, He had no thought of choosing, gave himself To Christ, and to His Church, and to the King Who, chastened for his sins, should come at last Unto his own again. And that is all His story. Deacon, priest, then canon there, His gentle years passed by. He did the works He found to do; preached, prayed, ministered Unto Gods people, poor and rich alike, In joy, in sorrow; heard the whispered sins Of heavy hearts, spoke them consoling words; Gave alms and counsel, having little thought For aught but Gods own service. Well he knew, Ever more surely, France must bide her time, Paying her debt of sin, ere God should grant Peace to her people, with the fleur-de-lys. He closed his mothers eyes amid the days When pear-faced Orleans, by the people~s voice Not Godsmade king, sat smug in Paris; saw Those loyal ones who for a little cheered The standard of the Duchess, bid her go Suckle her child unroyal. Sin must pay Its debt ere peace might come. He lived content, Following the sinless one as best he might, Putting his trust in Heaven. So he saw The peoples king fall as Gods chosen kings Had fallen before him; saw the prating men Of Paris strive to govern; saw the Prince Who aped the Emperor as the Emperor aped The god-like chiefs of Rome, come mow them down, Thinking to lure the tinsel empire back; Saw him too vanish; saw the stormy cloud Of war come cleanse his traces from the land; Hoped a while that the white-flagged king Might know his own at last; and, very old, Saw senseless sin let prancing Boulanger 120 THE DEAN OF BOURGES. Turn hope to shameful sorrow; bowed his head, Content that Gods own work shall bide Gods time. They made him dean at eighty. Then at last He did his sovereign service. Long ago, A man of Bourges, Jacques Cceur, that loved the king, Built for the king a mighty monument, Wherein, if so it pleased him, he might lie Resting his bones in peace. And though the king Came never thither, but in St. Denis Slept with his fellows till the reckoning day When royal bones pell-mell were flung abroad To rot forgottenstill the monument Until that troublous time, there in the church, Stood royal; and above it knelt the king, Fat, blue-eyed, happy, robed in fleur-de-lys. Then, when the royal fathers paid the debts Of their lewd children, impious rabbles came, Tore down the pile, and thrust the blue-eyed king Into some cellar, where he lay forgot. There old dean Felix found him; thence he bade Men bear the image to the church again; Therein, behind the altar, bade them place The royal suppliant, where the painted glass Sheds all its glory round him. When the king Came to his own again, perchance to Bourges His feet might stray. There in the solemn chnrch His fathers form should greet him, kneeling down In prayer for France; and with its great blue eyes Look deep into his soul, speaking the truth That even as France must kneel before the King, So must the King, if he would hold his own, Kneel before God. And now at last was come Good old dean Felix time. One summer day, He breathed his soul into the hands of God; Lay for a while in state; then from his church Passed gravely forth forever. AJI the trace He left on earth of all the peace he dreamed, And prayed and yearned for through these troubled years That France is vexed with, kneels in carven stone Behind Bourges altar. But his life hath earned Such peace as France nor earth may ever know. And so he sleeps, leaving his earthly watch To fat King Louis, on his cushioned knees, Safe in the cool cathedral. THE DOCTORS RELATIVES. By Kcirl Erichson. Father mine is a silver birch-tree, Mother mine is a summer cloud, Brother mine is the rye so golden, Sister mine is the sickle moon. Spring and fall and summer weather, I am lonely as the heather: There I sing, and sing, and sing. ToPELIUs E was hunting through the Minne ~ ta hills for some embers of the Sil- verstar family, lost for years. Not that he was known by that luminous name, for deciding, while a pen- niless emigrant, not to shine with a tar- n is Ii e d aristocratic heritage, he merged himself into an- other NelsonAxel Nelsongreatly to the disgust of hjs Silfverstjerna kin in Sweden. He had seen but little of his country- men in America, having been too busy to disport himself on questions of na- tionality. But here, among the Missis- sippi bluffs, he found a bit of peasant Sweden, and the doctor was delighted. Little did the settlers, eying the man with the silk umbrella, suspect the kind- ly, almost enthusiastic, feelings he felt, at every long-drawn greeting in the dear old tongue. The clean-scoured log- houses, the womens checked head-cloths, the hive-shaped piles of winter wood, the bang of the looms, well-nigh trans- ported him. At one place where the rail fences ran far up the hill - sides, where the stumps were grubbed out, where the tinkle of bells led many sheep, he in- troduced himself as a hungry Swede. The effect was magical, and long did he remember that dinner. How he feasted on the thin bread cakes dried on a pole among the rafters; how delicately fla- vored was that indescribable dish, o4 kakaa rennet custard served with cin- namon and cream. At some such hospitable cabin he would, perhaps, discover his relatives. So he fancied. But a mysterious surprise prevailed when he inquired for the Swensons Johannes Swenson. Undoubtedly, his host reflected, the stranger held the mortgage. Doctor Axel marvelled, as he took the indicated way, that so dilapidated, washed-out, cracked, thistle-grown road could be found in young Minnesota. It might have been an antediluvian trail, growing thistles ever since those first ones in Genesis. He seemed enter- ing an enchanted region of weeds and haze. It was one of the rare Indian summer days that sometimes linger till late November, when all the Min- nesota hills are ethereally blue and divinely mysterious. Up another coolie, and he gained a view of the great river, a view granted only by leafless fall. Through the bare swamp forests flashed the water, like a revelation. In among the vast reaches of yellow marsh grass coursed the devious channels, all a dazzling Minne- sota blue. Forgotten, vanished, the dainty differences of green that tinted the August river; now it emblazons the Indian summer islands with a runi~ scroll text in blue and gold. The house was in sight; a lamentable log-cabin in a small clearing where the primeval stumps were thick. The sod roof bore weeds, tall and many, that waved above the whitewashed door. A gay pile of pumpkins relieved one wall, and a dog of somewhat paler cast at- tacked the doctors heels. He knocked. Was Silfverstjerna blood here? No response. Pushing open, he saw a stack of dry beans and a flail. Then

THE DOCTORS RELATIVES. By Kcirl Erichson. Father mine is a silver birch-tree, Mother mine is a summer cloud, Brother mine is the rye so golden, Sister mine is the sickle moon. Spring and fall and summer weather, I am lonely as the heather: There I sing, and sing, and sing. ToPELIUs E was hunting through the Minne ~ ta hills for some embers of the Sil- verstar family, lost for years. Not that he was known by that luminous name, for deciding, while a pen- niless emigrant, not to shine with a tar- n is Ii e d aristocratic heritage, he merged himself into an- other NelsonAxel Nelsongreatly to the disgust of hjs Silfverstjerna kin in Sweden. He had seen but little of his country- men in America, having been too busy to disport himself on questions of na- tionality. But here, among the Missis- sippi bluffs, he found a bit of peasant Sweden, and the doctor was delighted. Little did the settlers, eying the man with the silk umbrella, suspect the kind- ly, almost enthusiastic, feelings he felt, at every long-drawn greeting in the dear old tongue. The clean-scoured log- houses, the womens checked head-cloths, the hive-shaped piles of winter wood, the bang of the looms, well-nigh trans- ported him. At one place where the rail fences ran far up the hill - sides, where the stumps were grubbed out, where the tinkle of bells led many sheep, he in- troduced himself as a hungry Swede. The effect was magical, and long did he remember that dinner. How he feasted on the thin bread cakes dried on a pole among the rafters; how delicately fla- vored was that indescribable dish, o4 kakaa rennet custard served with cin- namon and cream. At some such hospitable cabin he would, perhaps, discover his relatives. So he fancied. But a mysterious surprise prevailed when he inquired for the Swensons Johannes Swenson. Undoubtedly, his host reflected, the stranger held the mortgage. Doctor Axel marvelled, as he took the indicated way, that so dilapidated, washed-out, cracked, thistle-grown road could be found in young Minnesota. It might have been an antediluvian trail, growing thistles ever since those first ones in Genesis. He seemed enter- ing an enchanted region of weeds and haze. It was one of the rare Indian summer days that sometimes linger till late November, when all the Min- nesota hills are ethereally blue and divinely mysterious. Up another coolie, and he gained a view of the great river, a view granted only by leafless fall. Through the bare swamp forests flashed the water, like a revelation. In among the vast reaches of yellow marsh grass coursed the devious channels, all a dazzling Minne- sota blue. Forgotten, vanished, the dainty differences of green that tinted the August river; now it emblazons the Indian summer islands with a runi~ scroll text in blue and gold. The house was in sight; a lamentable log-cabin in a small clearing where the primeval stumps were thick. The sod roof bore weeds, tall and many, that waved above the whitewashed door. A gay pile of pumpkins relieved one wall, and a dog of somewhat paler cast at- tacked the doctors heels. He knocked. Was Silfverstjerna blood here? No response. Pushing open, he saw a stack of dry beans and a flail. Then 122 THE DOd~oR S RELATIVES. from a dark inner room hobbled a tiny, gray, decrepit woman swathed in coarse rags; on her face fear, in her hand a tattered catechism. On the tip of her wrinkled nose rested verdigris-rimmed spectacles, and stiff short hair empha- sized her uncanny look. Whos there? she whispered, wav- ing the book. Be it the land youre after? Deliver us from the wicked. Her dialect betrayed signs of good Swedish, of the clear-cut Stockholm accent, but the doctor quaked as he reflected that he was related by the female line. Bravely, however, he announced himself as a Silfverstjerna. Silfverstjerna? she screamed, flying at him. The Barons son, my cousins son? He was the cousins grandson, but her emotion was nowise abated. Axelina! Ax-el-in-a! she called. Wheres the young un? I might fall down this hill like last summer, when I rolled into the slough. Axelina. It was a witch shot, she hoarsely explained, clasping the talismanic book to her old superstitious breast. A witchshot. The doctor found Axelina under a tree, dark and unresponsive as the hill behind her. Over her chemise was but- toned a dark-blue skirt, and the tangle of black hair fell over bare shoulders. The last scarlet sumach leaf was no red- der than her cheeks, but utter lack of animation almost cancelled their brill- iancy. Motionless she sat, watching a caterpillar crawl up her bare arm. Virtually she was a pagan, a Minne- sota pagan, a little distorted, pervert- ed Lutheran, confirmed though she had been, drilled in churchly creed and code. Fireflies were her kin, water nixies she had spoken with. At this moment she was waiting to see the worm turn in- to an angel and carry her off beyond the purple line of the farthest Minnesota hill, by the last silver glimpse of the Mississippi, to give her clothes and folks like other girls. A sulien courtesy and a silent stare returned the strangers greeting as she finally stirred to the frantic summons to Go an fetch Johannes from the fen- c~n. Her uncle this was, of plebeian ex- traction. As she ran off into the copse, the doc- tor followed across the clearing, where rye had grown among the black stumps. His namesake stopped on the steep brink of the creek, and he wondered if she got that wonderful color from the Polish countess who married into their ancestral family during the Thirty Years war, or from this glorious, exhilarating Minnesota air. She stopped and gave a shrill whistle. A flap and rustle in the water below re- sponded, and straight up the cliff flew a solitary goose, alighting in evident de- light at Axelinas feet. She cast on the fine interloper a silent, triumphant look gainsaying abject misery, petted her bird, and led into the untouched forest. In a bush-hidden cave off the precipi- tous ravine, the unkempt, meagre Jo- hannes was making whiskey. (That is, fencin.) His apparatus was ridiculously small, but his enjoyment of inverse propor- tions. These pans, screws, pails, and tin cups, were all he cared for in the entire universe, and he could have thrown Axelina over the bluff for bring- ing this man here. But the doctor, tingling with adventure, greeted him effusively, said he had come hundreds of miles to see him, and was his cousin (revelling in the admission). Johannes subsided into a garrulous boon-compan- ion, urging the doctor to remain with them indefinitely, and bestowed upon him an extravagant dose of Minnesota moonshine, scorched and burnt into the flavor of all the spices of Cathay. Axelina was back at the creek, having decided that the Indian summer water was warm enough for a bath. On hot days, how they luxuriated in the water, girl and bird, chasing each other up and down stream. The goose would beat the water into milky effervescence while Axelina, from her cracked, rusty cup, poured the silver coolness down her arms. In pure luxury of existence she often lay asleep under the black haws, her arm thrown over the bank, where, through her fingers, the water r?Lvelled out a lullaby. Once she took a moonlight bath to see the trolls and elves against which her grandmother so vehemently prayed. And she was satisfied that white drape- THE DOCTOR S RELATIVES. 123 ries trailed through the dewy bushes; that the star down, down in the water sparkled on the brow of a spirit. She was enraptured to have seen it. The doctor was snowed in for a month. Minnesota Novembers cannot be trusted, and for decades the witching Indian summer had not loitered so long or lovingly among these hills. The first night he was awakened by fingers feeling over his face. Starting up, he saw the witch-like hag holding a candle high above her gray head, and heard her mutter Baron S., Baron ere she screamed and fled at his voice. At four every frozen morning his vacation slumbers were attuned to Johanness bean-flail. Johannes, in fact, seemed to have a peculiar disinclination to work at any other hour. This enforced leisure was likely to be ruinous to a man of his moderate means, but the hill had turned white and slip- pery, awe-inspiring to contemplate. He was insulated on an impassable glacier, scarred and scarped by the howling storms and cutting sleet. Axelina was a curious study; shy and sullen. It was remarkable that a child could be so apathetic to her own misery, so unresponsive to kindness. Yet he felt a magnetism in the girl: he called it pity. But when, the roads being opened a few days before Christmas, he prepared to go, she revealed herself like the flash of a sword from the sheath. Clinging to his arm, she wildly entreated him to stay over Christmas. She fixed her eyes upon him, saying he should stay. He was amazed, confounded, but won over, to his own surprise. So here he was, astonishing the set- tlement store by his purchases, and help- ing the poor child cook and clean, while Johannes provided a festive surplus of beans. The girl, in truth, had a knack, and a zealous one, for scrubbing, about the only thing her housekeeping condi- tions left scope for. She scoured the old boards out around the door, the benches, the table, the walls, with rush bundles of her own gathering, and it gave a sense of good living to the hovel. Had it not been for her, the weeds would undoubtedly have grown as tall on the hearth-stones as they did on the roof. The day before Christmas, the doctor heard sobs in the bean shanty, and found Axelina unflinchingly plucking her dear beloved goose, which she herself had killed. Though aghast at this inferred compliment to his presence, he did not imagine how much it meant. 0, Axelina, you ought not to have killed it. Her tears streamed on the downy breast as she petted it, but her voice flashed out: I wouldnt leave it to them. You see, she explained, in a tone that carried conviction to the listener, Im goin home with you. He had planned to give her dresses and shoes, but she evidently went fur- ther. Why, child, I dont see She was unmoved by his misgivings. I kin go, an I be goin. Does youi think I kin live here a bit longer? Will you whip me if I goes? You doesnt need to take me, Ill just foller. If you does whip me, Ill foller any how. He caught his breath. Was such fire in her heart? The dark eyes glowed, carmine spots came and went in her cheeks, but the curved mouth was in- flexible. The miserable cabin seemed indeed too poor to cage her. Rolling up her sleeve, she showed a long blue mark, saying, scornfully: Johannes hit me there. If you hit me like that, Ill foller anyhow. She was more lovely and wonderful than the aurora borealis flashing its crimson banners in the winter nights. Tears filled his heart and he drew the quivering girl to his side, impulsively kissing the red, red mouth. Poor little Axelina, I will take care of you.~~ She was his only Christmas present. The angel had come. The great open fire gave semblance of cheer to Christmas Eve in the poor cabin, really very clean; and there was quite a supper, including the regulation rice mush plus cinnamon. The doctor heaved birch-logs into the chimney and wondered how to announce Axelinas departure. She forestalled 124 THE DOCTOR S RELATIVES. him, however, bysimply te]ling them she was going away. Johannes was calm, stupefied you might say, having waded the drifts to his cave, and imbibed a sling of good nature. But the frantic grandmother became a raving incarna- tion of wrath. She shrieked, waved her catechism, and cursed the child. The indignant doctor stepped sternly for- ward, but Axelina motioned him off. Fixing her luminous eyes on the old woman, she trilled out a quick strain like the call of a wild bird, and then, af- ter a brief pause, sang. The doctor stood entranced by her voice. It held the sweet sound of the Minnesota Junes, and the mournfulness of the whippoorwills. It rose and fell in minors of an old folk ballad, and gushed forth in the tender, passionate Swedish words. The expression and pathos betrayed her imagination. - And indeed, at the moment, the song was her real life. While she exorcised the demented wom- an, she herself grew almost uncon- scious of her surroundings in the rapt- ure of singing. But when the song had quieted the poor old grandmother, Ax- elina, slender child, picked her up and carried her to bed with a last mournful refrainin the hard, ragged bed, the one-time beauty who had danced with barons. They were the offscouring of the settlement; the one house where was no thrift, no store of food, no wheel, no loom. Yet both Johannes and the old woman always went to church on Christmas morning. The doctor could not sleep that night for carollings of the young Christmas voice, and he was very ready for Johan- ness three oclock summons. Service began at five, and four miles to go. Dust was blown off the hymn-books. Johannes wildly tore the autumn snarls out of his hair with a ferocious, semi- toothless, Swedish brass comb. The old woman, wrapped and rolled in quilts, was packed into a blue box-sled which Dr. Axel gallantly drew down the steep, treacherous ice-hill, around formidable frozen curves, and through the dark, crackling, frozen forest. She, meantime, muttered and mumbled prayers and peti- tions against every evil she ever feared. Over the long line of snowy Missis- sippi bluffs glittered a play of northern lights, yellow and pink. Down through the settlement lanterns twinkled and shone on every hill-path, near and far, converging to a focus at the little log church. There the fur-coated men and sheep- skin robed women found a red-hot stove to greet them. (For they did not im- port the old Swedish r~girne of freezing to death in church.) Afar shone the little temple, for it was all illuminated by candles in the win- dows, candles on the pulpit, candles in the seat backs, candles in a festive, friv- olous, straw-trimmed chandelier above the altar. A black tablet announced the hymns in polished brass numbers, and hours before sunrise, in the heart of the frozen Minnesota woods, a churchful of people rose to sing No. 55 in the Lu- theran Psalter, Bishop Wallins immor- tal hymn that every Christmas morning ascends in praise on both sides of the Atlantic: Hail, hail, thou beauteous morning hour, That by the prophets holy power, To mortal .ught was given. The doctor recalled it from childhood and sang, all the while conscious of a soprano over on the womens side that led the congregation like the motive of a Christmas symphonyAxelinas voice. She wore a queer little muskrat cap with a fur tail bobbing down her neck, and, with hands clasped behind her, sang all the long stanzas by heart. Instructed in the catechism and in- scribed in the archives, she, neverthe- less, held a cordial disrespect for church and clergymanto be deprecated, but not wondered at. The season of con- firmation had not been happy. Yalfrid, with applause, had been awarded his place to lead the boys. Axelina stood unquestionably first of all, both boys and girls, in record. But there were rich farmers to consider, the pastors daughter, respectability. So, although gentle Yalfrid said he would not be con- firmed, his proud mother and the diplo- lomatic clergyman, won, and beggar woman Swensons grandchild stood last in line in the flower- decked Pentecost church; had stood at the altar hard, THE DOCTORS RELATIVES. 125 friendless, despising the prayers and the questions she faultlessly answered. Now on Christmas morning, through tune and interlude, strophe and anti- strophe, she fixed her eyes on the boy who played the psalmodilcona primi- tive, one-stringed lute deservedly pop- ular in its day and played on accord- ing to number books. (Alas, that the psalmodikon is heard no more, even in Minnesota!) The harper was a fine- looking boy, and the doctor recognized him as from the well-to-do farmYalfrid. It was the joy of Vaifrids prosaic life to play in church, and the music in his heart was not to be measured by earth- ly harmony as he drew the solitary choral notes from the solitary string. No. 55 had required much practice, but he made no mistakes. A happy flush enlivened his delicate blonde face as he eagerly leaned over the instrument, and the gold of his wonderful hair gleamed in the light of the altar candles. He was a god compared with the buxom, green-robed angels painted above the pulpit, whose prototype was found among the heavier females of the con- gregation. They, meantime, venerated the production, as a genuine Horberg. Doctor Axel found the Scripture les- sons in Johanness cubical hymn-book embossed with leathern cherubim, and the solemn, slow responses sent him back long years. But the sermon was disturbed by the warm knowledge that a stout, home-made tallow dip in an augur-hole was blazing within half an inch of the nape of his neck. Also by the busy man in new, unpilable, sheet- iron homespun who creakingly clogged about snuffing the candles, and whose natural deliberation of motion could only be accelerated by actual contact with burning flame. Indeed, in past years hymn-books had taken fire, the fur on several old ladies hoods been seri- ously damaged, and it was miraculous that, when the people rose to sing, there was not a general conflagration of coat- tails. Before dawn the long service closed, and Axelina pressed up to the musician boy. Yalfrid, Im goin away to-morrow. With him? For how long? Forever, she asseverated with tears. She had not thought it would be so hard to leave him. No, it be-ent, he stoutly whispered, with a smile like a star. You must come back. Lyclcligjul, Lina. (Merry Christmas.) And he pressed into her slender brown hand a string of yellow glass beads. That night Axelina flew up aifrighted, lest precious time had fled, and shook the uncouth Johannes to go out and consult the stars. Shivering, he avowed that they indicated near morning. Si- dereal time was not to be disputed, so the oxen started in the cold, scintillating moonlight. Down coolies, ravines, and frozen creeks; no daylight. Slow miles squeaked past to the groan of the cart-wheels. The doctor and Axelina ran furlongs in the spectral woods. Fifteen miles; they reached stage sta- tion four hours too early. This archaic punctuality amused the doctor, but no freezing owl in the frozen forest was more solemn than Axeina as the signs of her zodiac changed. The repressed joy was so great as to be a burden, and, surcharged with the unknown, she walked as in the vision of a dream. In the next four years Axelina gave no little trouble. For a long time it was only with Dr. Axel she was tractable and somewhat winning. Her sullen moods, ignorance, and imperious will very soon caused an estrangement between the doctor and Miss Lee, his affianced wife. She wanted no such relatives. The en- gagement was broken. The doctor was too busy to brood morbidly. He hid in his heart an im- age of the Laura Lee he could have idol- ized, and worked on. Competition, dis- appointments tempering each success; ambition kept him at high pressure, kept him from seeing much of his ward. Axelina improved, yet she was seven- teen, the brightest girl in the seminary, and without one close friend. She felt the void. She saw girls kiss their fathers, and suffered agonies of longing for such an opportunity. She looked at her guardians thoughtful face and wished she could run her fingers through his dark hair. Dreaming of nights that the old grandmother held her in her clutches, she often went to Dr. Axels 126 THE DOCTORS RELATIVES. door and sat by the threshold till morn- ing. Every day she gave a passionate little caress to his slippers, and vowed to become as good as he was. Every year a few letters were written from Valfrid, and she told the doctor he was soon coming for her. Her simplic- ity provoked only a smile. But one day she broke in on him at his desk. Vehe- ment and trembling, she sobbed, Vaifrid is sick, Vaifrid. I must go at once. Axelina, child, be calm. Let me speak to you.~~ Oh, I must go. When does the train leave? she cried. Axelina, he said, a little sternly, for he felt need of fortifying himself against that power she had of accomplishing her desires, I do not want you to go. I cannot go with you, and what could we do? Next summer we will go. She threw herself on the floor, clasp- ing his knees. You know, he gently went on, you are expected to sing to-night. The little wild bird must sing. You are to do so well. The caress in his voice appeased her, and she forced herself to be quiet. All afternoon she lay on her bed, with hands tightly clasped over her breast to repress the storm. That evening her voice was truly beautiful, and Dr. Axel enjoyed her tri- umph. And he smiled as he thought of the mornings episode and of her pow- er to control that temper. He doubt- ed not it was the happiest hour of her life. She marry Vaifrid? He had a vision that, could knights and ladies from the baronial hall of their ancestors be conjured up, they would not blush to own this little Silfverstjer- na singing so sweetly, so roundly ap- plauded. Forced to reappear, Axelina stood a moment irresolute, lovely in her delicate pink dress. She saw only her guardians fine face. A chill of hopelessness shook her, of misery, of the anguish of a warm, palpitating nature to have no answering heart to know it. She felt it was black ingratitude not to feel satisfied when he had done so much for her. In this su- preme moment of her years of awak ening, the faces before her became a blank expanse illuminated by Dr. Axels smile. But he was so far away, always so far. All this in a few seconds, then, realizing he expected her to sing, she asserted herself as Axelina by bursting into a little Swedish ballad she had not thought of for years. He alone in that audience understood the words, and sat electrified at her audacity: To Eastern land. will I journey, My love, oh, my true love to see; Over valley deep and mountain, All under the green linden-tree. Over valley deep and mountain, All under the green linden-tree. The complex emotions of her heart swelled naturally into the sad, subtile cadences, and the fine air charmed every ear. The delighted listeners took it as a well-planned surprise, congratulating the doctor. So odd! Quite effec- tive! IL THE next morning Axelina was gone; without a word. Her few dollars took her half-way; then followed a week of walking, beg- ging food, starving. She loosed a boat and rowed against the Mississippi cur- rent half a day between the majestic hills that stretched homeward. Was it home? Afraid of the night river, she landed at a dusky highway, sending the boat down stream with faith it would reach the owner. She came to the old road one mellow April twilight. All the valley was pervaded by the faint April perfumes suggesting flowers. Walking on slowly, more kindly thoughts of the old life filled her mind than ever before. The poor, weak grand- mother slept under the pasque flowers, by the side of Axelinas handsome, dis- appointed mother. Perhaps Johannes was better; perhaps he had awakened to some sense of manhood. A gaunt figure reeled toward her and she tried to hide among the trees, but the man accosted her rudely. The lady would gimme someting? The fine ladylady, he mumbled, with a leer. THE DOCTOR S RELATIVES. 127 It was Johannes. In the revulsion of her almost fantastic nature, she shook with abhorrence. Her spirit denied all affinity, even sympathy. He was never kind to anyone. Let me pass! I go to the next house. Lady not can the way.~~ She sprang to the open road, thinking he meant to murder her. Waving a long switch, she pointed over the well-known hill. You live over there, and if you dont let me pass and go right home, Ill whip you, and Ill go over the creek, break your whiskey jug, and lock the cave. Do you hear, Johannes Swenson? Cowed and appalled by his Nemesis, Johannes took hands off her, slinking aside utterly confounded. Involuntarily, he touched his ragged hat to her, as she quickly disappeared in the woods. Soon she reached Yalfrids home. Breathless and weak, she watched the spring fires on all the hills, down in the Mississippi marshes, afar on the other shore. Like evil serpents they writhed up the dark, dim Wisconsin hills, as she recalled that Valfrids folks hated her the beggar-girL After contact with the depraved Johannes, she experienced far less confidence in herself. Indig- nities of the old life oppressed her heart. One window was light, but all was silent as the grave. As she knocked, the silver April moon, evanescent and white as the first April blood-root blossom, dropped its early crescent behind the familiar notch in a big black bill. Yalfrids mother opened to her. May I see Valfrid? Vaifrid? Who is it? scrutinized the tall la& y in long cloak, who stood silent, a stranger, till Valfrids sister Annie cried, Axelina! 0 Annie, let me see him, she con- vulsively sobbed. The weeping mother walked the floor in loud lamentation. Then they told Axelina that Yalfrid was dead. Dead? In all her impetuous journey she had not considered this possibil- ity. Across the yard they led her to the new house where he lay; his mother did, who had let no one touch her dar- ling, her one son. The d6licate boy-face wore a smile, and the halo of yellow hair was lighted into camaieu golds and shades. This was her true friend, who helped her when others scorned, who loved her. His plain, sweet life was ended; this lovely form was ready for the grew- some crypt. He could not hear her voice. The frantic, exhausted girl knelt be- side him. Rebellious thoughts surged unformulated through her being, terri- fying, agitating in their variable indis- tinctness. Why could not her eager, passionate longing keep Death back? Why was anything stronger than her tempestuous, sacrificing heart? She took the dainty chiselled face in her hands, and just then the candles light flickered on the dumb psalmodikon leaning against his dead arm. The lute, the hand, but no music! With a moan she fell to the floor. Nothing more she knew until, after long weeks, she saw the doctor one sum- mer day by her bed. On the quilt lay the queer old harp which she had held and fingered through all the fever. Its one string was broken, and the simple melody of her child-life was also silent. But majestic chords of harmony were latent in her chastened heart. Long days she lay weak and silent, watching Yalfrids mother and Annie work. All the kerchiefed women came one day to make cheese for the minister. She experienced a protest against life in the settlement, though never till now had she loved these people. Valfrids mother had bowed her haughty spirit in her grief, and recognized the girls nat- ure as akin to her own. Axelinas soul breathed peace. With profound thankfulness she waited to go out into the world; waited for strength to tell Dr. Axel how glad she was he had enabled her to do so. Just what she would do, she knew not. The fever had been horrible. Many times she had seen Yalfrid die. She too had died and been with him in the kingdom of the dead. In uncertainty they had floated through a universe of vapor. Again, fire serpents had coiled 128 THE DOCTOR S RELATIVES. about him in slow, torturing toils. She herself had burned, burned, burned. She had been tormented by hideous visions of a huge burning psalmodi- kon in which Yalfrid was laid out for buriaL Awakening to reality, the world seemed a river of peace. The memory of the hallowed, quiet death-chamber and the smiling boy, was calm and beau- tiful, though mournful and sad. One July afternoon the doctor brought her out on the hill in the edge of the wood. It was July, luxurious July, when Mis- sissippi breezes hurry up from the river to the high bluffs; when the even lengths of Wisconsin hills shine golden with ripe wheat. July, or Carpasapa-wi, as the Dakotahs said, the month when the choke - cherrie~j are ripe. And over Axelinas head hung profuse racemes of the glistening, black-red fruit. She was pale; no bloom but on the exquisite mouth. A white shawl in soft folds about her throat, made the doctor think of the black hair about her bare shoulders. She was very quiet, not a re- bellious feeling in her. The long jour- ney to the Gate of Mystery had stilled the stormy creature. He closed his book, seeing the word death a few lines down, and stretched at full length on the slope below her. This was his second vacation. At thirty - five he felt disappointed that life proved so realistic, so destructive of the dreams dreamed by the boy on the cliffs of the Baltic. He was not bitter, but enthusiasm had faded from his soul as surely though as slowly as the blue from a harebell. To-day, however, he felt a buoyancy long unknown. This child, this dear girl would live. Poor Axelina, and he glanced lov- ingly at her. She smiled in perfect peace. Involuntarily, almost, he put his hand over her footshe had dainty hands and feetthinking reverently of the long miles she had walked in the im pulse of her heart. Just so she had once vowed to follow him, Ocer valley deep and mountain; All under the green tin n-tree. Life was not all materiaL The spirit world touches us in life as well as death; how, otherwise, could he now be so near the impulsive faith of inex- perience? Well, Axelina; are you ready to go home with me? Yes, she simply answered, though this was the first word as to her future. She suspected no change as she looked afar down over the vast river-marshes. But there was longing in his eyes as he questioningly searched her passive face. He was very handsome, with the background to his fine looks of a good, earnest man. Come to me, Axelina ; sing me Swed- ish ballads. Can you love me well ehough to be my wife? It was a delirious moment to her; words as startling as a line of lightning. The color surged to her face and throat, her pulses bounded too quickly. Him she had adored afar; reverenced his acts as those of a superior being. She knew that with him life would be bright, be pure and great. Love him? Have the right to? Eagerly she leaned forward, looking into his waiting face, and he could hardly endure the brightness in the great black eyes as she uttered her first thought. Oh, I should love to be your wife. We know not whither the path in our garden or the road past our house doth tend. Again they went the thistle- grown - trail from the Swedish settle- ment, and it led to happiness, such hap- piness as few bridal paths do find. He never felt that he gave as much as he received ; and in the successful years she no oftener followed the reason of his disciplined mind than he the dic- tates of her loving impulse. Ox~ of the ingenious persons who make interesting paragraphs in the newspapers, put into a Boston paper, the other day, a tale of a well-to-do gentleman who had~ son. For whom, when he came of age and had finished with the customary educa- tional preliminaries, his father cast about for an occupation; and himself having no business except to nurse his income, he wrote to twenty-four friends whose indus- trial efforts had resulted successfully, ask- ing each what he thought was a good busi- ness, or profession, for a youth to start in. The paragraphers story is that each correspondent, in his reply, complained of his own calling, and advised the inquirer to try something else. Whereat the father was disconcerted, and at last account the son was still idle. The story is reasonable enough to be true. It seems not to lie in the average man who knows what success in his particular line of activity has cost him, to believe easily in another persons ability to pay the neces- sary price, escape fatal misadventures, and be favored by the indispensable lucky chances. Moreover, the thing that he has done looks small to him when he recalls the continuousness of the effort that accom- plished it. When he makes his estimate of results he usually counts in dollars and cents, and is apt to overlook what every sincere moralist is bound to regard as the most important result of all, the effect of his exertions upon himself. The effort which has made him successful~~ in the VOL. XI.13 more limited sense, has developed his strength and his manhood. That was, or should have been, the result that the inquiring Boston parent sought for his son. Recognizing that to nurse an in- come is an old-gentlemanly avocation, and hardly fit to bring out the latent qualities of youth, he wanted, doubtless, to put his youngster somewhere where burden - bear- ing would make him sturdy; but, like the rest of us, he wanted the sturdiness to be incident to the acquisition of satisfactory pecuniary gains. Generally speaking, our American con- ception of profitable work is still something that makes direct cash returns. We are perfectly aware that character is valuable, and that hard work is almost indispensable to its growth, yet our impulse is to meas- ure the value of labor in coin. Even when we dont need, or really care about, the money our work might bring, we are apt to persist, from mere force of habit, in measuring it primarily by this standard, and secondarily, if at all, by its results in ourselves. The truth is, as the experience of the Boston father illustrates, that there is scarcely any calling whose mere money returns will seem to its successful pro- fessors worth the pains they have cost. I have had to work at this job, each of the Boston mans correspondents seems to have said; IL had no choice, for IL had to make a living. But with your son it is different. He can afford to choose some- thing else. THE POINT OF VIEW.

Ox~ of the ingenious persons who make interesting paragraphs in the newspapers, put into a Boston paper, the other day, a tale of a well-to-do gentleman who had~ son. For whom, when he came of age and had finished with the customary educa- tional preliminaries, his father cast about for an occupation; and himself having no business except to nurse his income, he wrote to twenty-four friends whose indus- trial efforts had resulted successfully, ask- ing each what he thought was a good busi- ness, or profession, for a youth to start in. The paragraphers story is that each correspondent, in his reply, complained of his own calling, and advised the inquirer to try something else. Whereat the father was disconcerted, and at last account the son was still idle. The story is reasonable enough to be true. It seems not to lie in the average man who knows what success in his particular line of activity has cost him, to believe easily in another persons ability to pay the neces- sary price, escape fatal misadventures, and be favored by the indispensable lucky chances. Moreover, the thing that he has done looks small to him when he recalls the continuousness of the effort that accom- plished it. When he makes his estimate of results he usually counts in dollars and cents, and is apt to overlook what every sincere moralist is bound to regard as the most important result of all, the effect of his exertions upon himself. The effort which has made him successful~~ in the VOL. XI.13 more limited sense, has developed his strength and his manhood. That was, or should have been, the result that the inquiring Boston parent sought for his son. Recognizing that to nurse an in- come is an old-gentlemanly avocation, and hardly fit to bring out the latent qualities of youth, he wanted, doubtless, to put his youngster somewhere where burden - bear- ing would make him sturdy; but, like the rest of us, he wanted the sturdiness to be incident to the acquisition of satisfactory pecuniary gains. Generally speaking, our American con- ception of profitable work is still something that makes direct cash returns. We are perfectly aware that character is valuable, and that hard work is almost indispensable to its growth, yet our impulse is to meas- ure the value of labor in coin. Even when we dont need, or really care about, the money our work might bring, we are apt to persist, from mere force of habit, in measuring it primarily by this standard, and secondarily, if at all, by its results in ourselves. The truth is, as the experience of the Boston father illustrates, that there is scarcely any calling whose mere money returns will seem to its successful pro- fessors worth the pains they have cost. I have had to work at this job, each of the Boston mans correspondents seems to have said; IL had no choice, for IL had to make a living. But with your son it is different. He can afford to choose some- thing else. THE POINT OF VIEW. 130 THE POINT OP VIEW. Every year the American colleges are turning loose increasing numbers of youth with the elements of education in them, whose circumstances are such that they may choose what they will do without much regard to the money returns of their labor. It is an interesting question wheth- er the prospective results of their labors on themselves are to influence these young men in an increasing degree in their choice, or whether a taste for luxury, stim- ulated by the sight of the extremely rich (whom we have always and increasingly with us in these days), is going to make vast profits seem more than ever labors most desirable return. Whatever the gen- eral tendency is, there are sure to be some candidates every year whose incentive to work is an honorable aversion to worthless- ness. A particular field in which all good Americans hope to see such young men venture is politics, and especially munici- pal politics. If the American young man who loves his work for his works sake, and need not get his bread by it, should elect to take a hand in the government of cities, the result might be comforting to that re- spectable body of citizens who are tired of being governed by men who are in that business primarily because they find it a source of income. Of course, when the man who loves his work for his works sake comes into competition in municipal poli- tics, as elsewhere, with the man who is working for his dinner, his coat must come off, metaphorically speaking, if he is to ac- complish anything. That is the beauty of it. It would be hard work, harder than yacht-racing or even polo: less vainly amusing, and less cheaply glorious; and fitter, for those reasons, to satisfy the aspi- rations of an energetic and devoted spirit. IT is still, one dare believe, at least ar- guable whether the decline of interest in poetry, that there is so industrious an ac- counting for of late, has actually befallen. In volume of production, whatever the last four or five years may show, the last twenty- five surely compare not unfavorably with any previous twenty-five in the history of English literature. Whence one may infer the survival of a fair degree of interest among the producers at any rate. And as for the consumers, what reason is there to believe that the number of students of poetry among English readers was ever larger than at this very moment? Never before were there professors and courses of poetry in all the higher schools. Never before was there such a flow from the press of reissues of the old poetry, and of issues and reissues of new and old comment there on. Mr. Gosse, indeed, detects in this par- ticular activity of the press a premonition of disaster to the present prosperity of the old poets, and argues that, since whatever is made a task grows odious, the surest way of starting a poet to oblivion is to en- wreathe him with notes and coffin him in a text-book. But it is clear that Mr. Gosse does not desire to be taken too seriously in this argument; and he, no doubt, would be the first to allow that, for the present, at least, the text-books do testify to the istence somewhere of a very earnest in- terest. Granting the decline, however, to be past further question, is the explanation of it that finds most favor quite sufficient? This explanation imputes it primarily to the com- mercial, money-making, worldly disposition of the age. To make this account of the matter good, an age pre-eminent in poetry should show weakness in the commercial, money-making, worldly disposition. With all the fluctuations in literary judgments, we now constantly concede pro-eminence in poetry to the Elizabethan age. To Shakespeare, no doubt, is due the readi- ness of the acknowledgment; but it would still be merited had the Elizabethan age, remaining in all else the same, lacked Shakespeare. For while Shakespeare was as distinctly unapproachable then as since, never before or since was poetry so in the very air of the time. Everybody wrote verses, and everybody in a measure wrote them well. A charm seemed to be on even the poetaster, so that, strive as he might, he could not do his worst. A line or two of distinction would slip into his inventions, as if in very despite. Hence Lowell, seeking a passage to fitly characterize the inspiring speech and countenance of Emer- son, could choose, out of his large store of remembered verse, two stanzas from one of the obscurest of the Elizabethan THE POINT OF VIEW. 131 poets, and from a poem that closes in this fashion: And here my pen is forst to shrinke, My teares discollor so mine inke. Nor are these lines below the general level of the poem, although Lowells quotations do not exhaust its beauties. But this most poetical of ages was far from weak in the commercial, money-mak- ing, worldly disposition. Studied in such intimate chronicles as Holinsheds, it strikes one of our time less by its oddity than by its likeness in this and in many other attributes. The merchants are grow- ing rapidly rich and using their accumu- lations to monopolize the land. The mar- kets are subject to manipulations; even the wheat corner has got evolved; and thereby w& may see, sadly reflects the chronicler, how each of us endeavoreth to fleece and eat up another. Tradesmen are grown eager, and their wares debased. The luxurious prefer foreign products to domestic. French cooks have stolen into the kitchen. Fashions in dress, through the vanity of wealth. and. the greed of tailors, change like the inconstant moon. There is, too, corruption in politics, the courtiers being many of them the worst men when they come abroad that any man shall either hear or read of. And they who make re- port of these things do it in such sorrow that, had they been of our day, they must have been rated roundly by the newspapers for calamity-howlers and pessimists. It is worth while to note, too, that this the golden age of poetry resembled ours in being regarded by the poets themselves as peculiarly unfriendly to their art. In its earlier days, and at the opening of his career, Spenser complains that his poore Ninse hath spent her spared store, Yet little good hath got, and mnch lesse gayne. This might be regarded as only an outburst of the discouragement that always attends the beginner, but Spenser repeats and en- larges his lament in after life. A little later Sir Philip Sidney finds just cause to make a pittiful defence of poore poetry, since, from almost the highest estimation of learning, it is fallen to be the laugh- ingatocke of children. And toward the close of the period Ben Jonson rages in life-long warfare against the depraved taste of the time, while Chapman in one passage regrets that the barbarous worldling, grov- elling after gain, uses Poesy with rude hate, and in another flings defiance at the wolf-faced worldlings who, caring for nothing but honours, riches, and magis- tracy, bray and bark against the muse. In view of all this, I for one should say that poetrys present want of estimation, besides being very dimly demonstrated, is also very imperfectly accounted for. Tr~ Israelites who are being robbed and driven across the border in Russia have probably as rich a sacred literature of de- nunciation and vengeance from which to derive assurance of the fate of their op- pressors as anywhere exists. It is easy to imagine them brooding with gloomy satis- faction over the solemn passages in which the Hebrew poets, more than two thousand years ago, pictured the wrath that should overtake those who dealt ill with the chosen people of the Lord. His own iniquities shall take the wicked himself, and he shall be holden with the cords of his sins, was one of the Proverbs of Solomon, the son of David, King of Israel, to which the starving refugees within the Pale doubt- less still attach the childlike and invinci- ble faith of their strangely simple, and still more strangely subtile, race. In the case of Russia the wisdom, if not the inspiration, of Solomon has been justi- fied with a swiftness that may well seem to the believers the evidence of the anger of the Lord. For it cannot be questioned that the famine that is now scourging Euro- pean Russia, and that is more extended and more terrible than any known in the mod- ern history of the civilized world, has been greatly aggravated, and may be said to be, in considerable measure, actually caused by the cruel treatment of the Jews. Over a very great portion of the grain- producing region of Russia the Jews, and they alone, have furnished the money for seed, for the culture, for the gathering, and the moving of the crops. The tillers of the soil in Russia, from the largest landed pro- prietor to the peasants of the smallest com THE POINT OF VIEW. munity, have for more than a generation been hopelessly in debt, and to an extent that has compelled them to mortgage, not merely their land, but the products of their lands, for at least a year ahead. And it is to the Jew that they have been forced to ap- ply for the means to continue their occupa- tion. With the first signs (in the winter of 189091) of the approaching general attack upon their race, the Jewish capitalists began not merely to limit their advances, but to take steps to collect their dues, and to put their property in such shape that it could be hidden andtransported when the hour of flight or of exile approached. Thus the area of tillage last year was dis- tinctly diminished by the withdrawal of the means for securing seed and labor. By spring-time the policy of plunder and banishment for the Jews had been greatly developed, and its enforcement ~vas ren dered infinitely harsher by the unbridled hatred of the people for the race whom they believed their oppressors, and knew to be their creditors. By harvest-time the infatuated peasants and proprietors had almost wholly driven the Jews from their homes, and with them the means to harvest the crops. It does not, of course, require a revela- tion to see the relation of cause and effect here. Political economy is not an inspired science. Its teachers rather boast that it is unmoral, and its critics denounce it as heartless. But in Russia its laws have worked swiftly, and with terrible justness, a result that was as certain, literally, as the seed-time and the harvest. That result might easily have been foreseen by men not blinded by hatred; but, to cite Solomon again, where there is no vision the people perish. 182 ft. A PORTRAIT. [From a pastel by William M. Chase.] See American lilustratien of To-aey.

/ SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE. VOL. XI. FEBRUARY, 1892. No. 2. STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. By Sidney Dickinson. U ST RAL IA, the island - conti- meeting the hills that should arrest their A nent, resembles, to those who are course and pour them down in showers acquainted with it, one of the upon the yearning soil; rivers, wander- atolls that lie in the tropic waters about ing inland from their sources near the it, being, in effect, a great ring of fertile shore, sink into it without causing it to soil surrounded by the barrenness of smile; its secrets are locked in perpet- ocean, and enclosing, in its turn, a deso- nal drought, and its histories are writ- late sea of rock and sand. Dwellers up- ten in the bones of men and beasts that, on the outer and inner circumferences striving to penetrate its mysteries, only of this circle look upon similar horizons, added thereto by the uncertainty of the One is formed of water, the other of land, fate that overtook them in its wilds. but both are equally flat and unbroken, Along the entire coast-line of Anstra- both su0gest infinite spaces, and both ha, and extending inland variously for tire the eye with their aspect of unre- a distance of from fifty to two hundred lieved monotony. In this inhospitable miles, is a belt of rich, arabic land, land of interior Australia all the kind- which, although not unvisited locally ly influences of nature fail. The rain- by drought in certain seasons, rarely clouds shun it or pass over it without disappoints the growers of grain and copyright, 1891, by Charles Scribners Sons. All rights reserved. Hauling the Wool to Melbourne. 136 STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. fruit, and of all necessary things that spring from fertile soil. In these re- gions the grass grows rankly and the wheat waves thickly under genial skies; the valleys and hill-sides are rich in or- chards and vineyards, and the slopes of the mountains are covered with a ]un- gle of scrub, out of which, like pillars in a cathedral, the boles of enormous en- calypts project themselves. Here dai- ries flourish, and apples, oranges, figs, and all other cheerful fruits ripen in the semi - torrid sun, and a thousand spouting presses pour forth juices which, by their superb bouquet, recall to trav- elled minds the floods from Burgundian wine-tubs, and choicest samples from the tuns of Bordeaux. No country ex- ists of finer possibilities (nor, when its youth is considered, of more encourag- ing achievement) than this of the Au- stralian littoral, which is already well Driving the Culls to Market. developed from Brisbane round to Ade- laide, and includes in its capabilities the growth of every food that is known to man. Between this zone of Australia Felix and the haggard desert within lies an- other region, more irregular, more diffi cult of description, and less well defined. It is a country of vast spaces and expand- ing views, now extending in level and unbroken stretches for a hundred miles, and again presenting enormous belts of stunted timber, streaked by infrequent and capricious streams; here showing shallow lakes with barren shores, and there a cone whose even slope confirms the evidence already given by the vol- canic nature of the soil. In these dis- tricts one misses both the richness of the coastal farms and the barrenness of the dead interior, yet catches sugges- tions of each. The soil is not adapted to vegetables and grain, yet the heavy growth of bush, the occasional water- ways and ponds, and the occurrence of nutritious grasses forbid its abandon- ment. Even at its best, however, it is not the place where an experienced American or British farmer would look for profit, and only after the autumn and winter rains is there a trace of green upon it. Early in the history of the colonies efforts were made to reclaim and cultivate it, but all ended in failure. The soil was obdurate, the droughts were frequent and protracted, and often STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. 137 broke up in destructive floods; agricul- ture fought a losing fight for a time and then succumbed, and millions of acres in Australias middle belt would have been abandoned to the desert had it not been that Providence saw fit, in ages agone, to give to humanity one animalthe sheep. In every phase of Australian develop- inent one observes the influence of the Scotch. These people, the best of all British colonists, are found in all parts of the country, and in many towns, and conspicuously in Melbourne and Ade- laide control affairs and give the preva- lent tone to society. Observing the important part they have played in the history of the country, it is natural enough to find them credited with the inauguration of that industry which has had the chief influence in making the Australians, in proportion to their num- bers, the richest people in the world.* * The latest available statistics (1890) show that the avera e wealth of Victoria is 390 per head of popula- tion, ~and of New South Wales 360 per head. The IJuited States is second only to Australia in average wealth, 240 per head. The history of Australian wool-grow- ing began in 1793, when Mr. John Mc- Arthur, of Sydney, landed at that port a herd of eight fine-woolled sheep from the Cape of Good Hope. The success which crowned his venture, in the shape of a rapid improvement in the quantity and quality of the wool that these sheep produced, was so great that Mr. MeAr- thur, ten years later, sailed for Europe to secure some specimens of Spanish merinos, for which he believed the hot, dry climate of pastoral Australia was particularly adapted. The Spaniards, however, knew the value of their flocks, and had made the exportation of men- nos a capital offence. Therefore the Australian Jason, disappointed iu his quest for this fleece, which, if not itself golden, he believed would put much gold into his pocket, returned to Eng- land, where his enthusiastic accounts of Australia reached the interested ears of the farmer - king, George III. As MeArthurs luck would have it, the king, some years before, had been presented Making a Dan. 138 STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. by his cousin of Spain with a pair of the finest of these merinos, and from the increase thereof he graciously gave to the Australian four splendid animals, with which he set sail rejoicing. These high bred sheep landed safely in Aus- tralia, and fully realized all the expec- tations of their owner; they improved the grade of wool, and so increased and multiplied that, at the end of 1890, their progeny had spread all over Australia, Tasmania, and New Zealand, and num- bered 101,267,084 individuals, repre- senting, with the land upon which they pastured, at least 400,000,000.* New- fangled notions prevail but slowly in Australia, and it was not until about 1830 that Mr. McArthurs enterprise was generally imitated. Then, however, there was an important movement into the interior, and the wilds of New South Wales and Victoria were startled by the unaccustomed sight of wagon - trains trekkings across the wastes in search of a new Canaan of sheep and wooL The early squatters came with a con- quering air. Before him lay limitless regions, absolutely ownerless save of nomadic tribes of blacks, and as he as- cended some gentle slope; and saw the vast expanse of plain and forest, stream and lake that stretched around him on every hand, he extended his arms like the discoverer of a new world and cried: All that I see is mine. This act was his title-deed, and was not dis- puted until, years after, the state inter- fered to control, in some small meas- ure, its ravished domain; he pitched his tents, like Abraham, amid his flocks and herds, and apportioning territories as large as many European principalities among his sons and daughters, lived in truly patriarchal fashion, and reaped the rewards of virtue and of an eye for the main chance. It is scarcely nec- essary to say that the Scotch were con- spicuous in this hegira, and that the list of squatters throughout Australia to-day reads like the bead - roll of a Highland clan. A remarkable concurrence of fortu- nate events assisted the early squatters. The Government of the day supplied them with all the convict labor they de * The average annual increase of sheep in the last ten years, throughout Australasia, has been 3,500,000. sired in the guise of assigned servants, and for twenty years they saw their flocks increase, and clipped and sent away their wool, with very little expense to themselves. When, about the year 1850, over-production reduced profits until fat sheep were sold at a shilling a head, and the business seemed on the verge of failure, the discovery of gold drew hundreds of thousands to Victo- ria and New South Wales to devour the surplus and restore confidence. When the ensuing increase again brought supply and demand into equilibrium, the American war broke out and ad- vanced the price of wool, and later still, when the competition of the Argentine Republic began to be felt, the frozen- mutton industry arose, and again brought sheep quotations to the com- paratively remunerative figure of seven and eight shillings per head, where they still remain. It is impossible to secure information as to the total wealth that has accrued to these lucky squatters through such exceptional circumstances, yet there are many individuals whose present annual income is from 10,000 to 100,000, and one pastoral king, who owns some thirty stations in Victoria, Queensland, and New South Wales, re- cently informed me that his net profit in 1890 was 192,000. Many of the Australian stations are of magnificent proportions. Old Jim- my Tyson, as he is familiarly known, who is reputed to be the wealthiest man in Australia, and worth at least 2,000,000, pastures 70,000 head of cattle upon a single one of his prop- erties, and owns stations, both in New South Wales and Queensland, each of which is larger than Bavaria. Mr. Ali- son, of New South Wales, iii his two adjoining stations of Mergular and Can- onbar, holds an area greater than Bel- gium, and in the same colony Mr. Will- iam Hallidays Brookong station (one of the finest in Australia) comprises 200,000 acres and carries 250,000 sheep. The three stations in the Riverina district of New South Wales, owned by Mr. Henry Ricketson, upon which most of the material and illustrations for this article were secured, carry over 200,000 sheep, but are small compared with some of his other properties, one DRAWN BY BIRGE HARRISON. The Shearing, ENGRAVED BY VAN NE68. 140 STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. station in Queensland consisting of over 753,000 acres, or 1,177 square miles. The stations of Fairbairn & Sons, in southern Queensland, and of Elder, Smith & Co., in South Australia, carry over half a million sheep each, and assist very materially in swelling the enormous wool clip of Australia. Fig- ures like the above might be quoted in- definitely, but it is enough to say that at present the pastoral lands of Austra- lia include an area somewhat in excess of that of all the New England States, New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, the two Yirginias, Kentucky, and Tennessee com- bined. The acquisition, practically without cost, of enormous station properties nat- urally attracted the attention of the var- ious colonial governments, and after a spirited fight between interests already established on the soil and those that sought to assume possession of it, laws were passed restricting the holding of each individual, and throwing open a large part of the country to selec- tion. As the purpose of this article is descriptive, rather than statistical or historical, it is unnecessary to enumer- ate the provisions of the various laws that were passed upon this subject. It is enough to say that they were very to the present figure of 320 acres, the large station-owners managed to hold on to most of their possessions by the use of dummies. By this device the squatter himself, all the members of his family, his servants, shepherds, boun- dary-riders, station-hands, and rabbiters each registered a section, the dummies duly handing their selection over to the original holder for a slight consid- eration. Here and there a crafty one, perceiving the strength of his position, refused to surrender his selection, and set up for himself in the midst of his employers acres, where he remained, as a thorn in the flesh to the latter, until induced to move by a substantial bribe. To the present day many directors of such a coup remain, forming the class known as cockatoo farmers, who are regarded by the squatters as an intoler- able nuisancea distinction which they often seek to perpetuate by exercising their right of running roads to their do- mains through the surrounding proper- ties, leaving gates open between vari- ous paddocks and thus mixing the sheep; pasturing their own small flocks upon the runs about them, and by a thousand petty annoyances forcing the sale of their holdings at three or four times their real value. In general the Changing Paddocks. frequently evaded, and that, although laws authorizing selection upon sta- the amount of land which any one mdi- tion properties were quite unjustifiable. vidual was allowed to retain was gradu- They were passed in order to promote ally restricted, and at last brought down agricultural enterprise, but most of the STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. 141 Crossing Sheep over a billaoong. land they threw open was quite unfit for the purpose, and the result has been to hamper the squatting inter- est without promoting any other. Even in the best pastoral country little else than wheat can be grown, and this is such an uncertain crop that farmers are generally satisfied if in three years out of five they ob- tain a remunerative harvest. A time may come when it will be necessary to the paddocks, as the various fields are extend the agricultural area in order to called (some of these paddocks con- accommodate the increasing population. tam 12,000 acres), and changing the That time, however, is still far distant, flocks from one to another as necessity nor can the greater portion of the land may demand, he keeps them in excellent now given up to sheep ever be utilized order; and although he has learned for husbandry without extensive and many bitter lessons from former years costly irrigation, of drought, he generally manages to Nothing can appear more unpromis- prosper in spite of apparently hostile ing to the unpractised eye, either for conditions. He has been taught to agriculture or any other useful purpose, place little dependence upon the yearly than most of the pastoral land in Aus- rainfall, and stores in damss (as he tralia. It consists chiefly of endless calls his reservoirs scooped out in the plains of sunbaked red and yellow clay, hard soil) the abundance of one season sparsely carpeted with short, dry grass, against the possible dearth of the next. which is in many places so scant that When grass is plentiful and rank, he the sheep seemed pastured upon ab- garners great quantities of it in stacks solutely bare soil. The experienced or ensilage pits, and endures a siege of squatter, however, has discovered that two or three years of famine with un- this sterile expanse produces a grass troubled mind. Losses he has in these which, while it seems to wither, retains which is one of the richest in the colonies, the land will decided nutritive qualities. Although it carry three or fonr sheep to the acre, hut can here he worked to greater profit for agricultural purposes. can support but a lilnited number of The value of stations is gauged hy the numher of sheep to the acre, it affords these few a sheep upon them. A fair average is ahout 3 per sheep, with land, huildings, implements, dams, and all other rich and fattening diet.* By watching fixtures thrown in. The host properties of Victoria and New South Wales are valued at from 4 lOs. to T, and even 10, per acre for the land alone, and in case of sales * The grazing value of Australian land varies greatly. on this hasis the stock are either sold hy auction, or Fair pastoral country will carry one sheep to the acre, taken hy the purchaser of the land at a valuation. and an average of one sheep to two, or even three acres The average income of station properties is from five is not to he despised. Even a ratio of one sheep to five per cent. to twelve per cent., according to season and acres is not unusual. In the colac district of Victoria, the skill of the manager. 142 STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. seasons, of course; but they are slight compared with the ruin which often threatened him in former times, and one good year at present more than atones for two bad ones. It is a matter of con- gratulation, however, when the seasons of ripening and of rain follow each other in dtie order. The average squatter is not an emotional person, but he is nev- ertheless accustomed to rejoice loudly when he hears the tumultuous down- rushing of the autumn rain reverberat- ing upon his roof of corrugated iron, promising rich pasturage for the lamb- ing ewes and consequent strength to their offspring. It is astonishing to look forth over the expanse of these erstwhile barren plains and see how suddenly they revive at the touch of the showers. In a few hours the brown wastes of burnt earth are veiled in deli- cate green, and in a week the grass is ankle-deep, and the sheep, like the young woman observed by the elder Weller at the Ebenezer Junction tea- drinking, seem swellin wisibly before our wery eyes. The tenacity of the so rankly does it grow that the ducks and geese leave the rivers, and the cranes and herons the fens, to feed up- on its juicy substance as it lies half- sodden in shallow pools. The life and cultivation of the sheep represent the mainspring of station ex- perience; the squatters year begins and ends in the sign of the Ram. The twelvemouth which affords elsewhere four seasons, brings to pastoral Aus- tralia but twothose of shearing and lambing. Both are periods of feverish activity and arduous toil, while between them life is easy and even indolent. The shearing season, although lasting only two or three months in any one section, comprises in its complete round nearly nine months of the year. It is earliest in the hot districts of northern Queensland, where it begins in Febru- arythe August of the Souths inverted yearand slowly spreads down over the country, carrying with it the enor- mous nomadic bands of shearers, through Ne South Wales and Victoria, where it ends during October. From Victoria many shearers pass over to Tasmania and New Zealand, where, the climate b e in g cooler, shearing does not end until midsummer.* The shearer is a distinct identity, a peculiar element in the ranks of Australian labor. He holds himself aloof from the ordinary workers, and looks upon his employment in the light of a profession. He is usually well to do, and owns his horse and equipment. He is often a small selector, who takes a turn at shearing to help out his income; or the son of a prosperous farm- er. He is also, as a rule, * The wool clip in Australasia in 1890 amounted to 1,600,000 bales, of the a~- gregate value of about 25,000,00~i. About seventy per cent, of wool exported is greasy, and thirty per cent, scoured, and last years prices were, on the av- erage, l0~4d. and 18d. respectively. These prices are well up to the average of the last twenty years. There is great variation an the weights of fleeces before and after scouring. There are records of clips weighing thirty pounds each before scouring, but nearly two-thirds of the weight disap- peared when the wool was ready for manufacture; six- pound fleeces (scoured) are, however, very common. An Orphan. soil, which militates against the growth of crops, assists the grass by holding the water near the surface, where it can be drunk up by the thirsty roots; and STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. 143 irugal and temperate, and by careful investment of his money may even rise in time to become a station-owner him- self. Many of the shearing fraternity, however, confess to a taste for pleas- ure, and when the season is over, and they have received their checks for 120 or 150 (for all payments for station work are made in checks, and not in cash), they settle down at some convenient bush pub. until tbey have knocked it down (to use their own expressive vernacular) for the board and lodging and poisonous liquor which the establishment provides. When their money is exhausted they are turned out, and humping blucy (shoulder- ing their blanket) and carrying a smoke- blackened billy, or tin pail for mak- ing tea, they sally forth into the hot summer weather and make thcir way northward again to await the open- ing o-f another shearing season. * In this estate they swell the noble army of * Shearers make use of an ordinary jargon, in converse among themselves, of which the stranger can make lit- tle or nothing. The following sentence was repeated to the writer by a gentleman who overheard it in a conversa- tion between two shearers in the hack blocks of New South Wales: I waltzed down to the shed, took down the tongs (shears), pulled out a blooming papillon (woolly sheep), and was going down the whipping side (right side) swagmen or sundowners, who are chiefly the fearful human wrecks which the ebbing tide of mining enterprise has left stranded in Australia, and who have earned the title above quoted by their habit of turning up at sunset at the station gates to demand a nights lodging. Their demand is seldom re- fused; in fact every well-equipped sta- tion has its travellers hut for the ac- commodation of these gentry. Nor are rations withheld. They are all provided with the regulation pound of mutton, and the pint of flour for the evening damper an unleavened cake baked upon the coals, which would confuse the digestive powers of any other stomach than that of the ostrich or a swagman. The native hospitality of the squatters accounts in part for this treatment, but it is largely abetted by the rejected sundowners habit of killing a few sheep as he passes through the paddocks, wringin~ the necks of with both blades heavily loaded (with all expedition) when the boss came up and shot me dead (discharged me). I went back to the hut with a hop, skip, and a jump, collared my swag (seized my blankets), chncked the hide on the old crocodile (saddled the horse), went down river like a frog (with long jumps at full speed), and had clipped a hundred and forty by sundown the next afternoon. The Beundary Riders Orders. DRAWN BY BINGE HARRISON. Night on the Plains, ENGRAVED BY NOMUNSLER. STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. 145 stray geese, or accidentally dropping a lighted match under some hayrick or woolshed. Station-owners stand in wholesome awe of these vagrants, of whom it is not uncommon for a single station to quarter and feed as many as three or four thousand in a year. The unwritten law of station usage forbids them to remain for more than one night in any given place; having enjoyed shelter and the provisions above de- scribed, they must in the early morning resume their journey. A station at shearing time is one of the busiest places in the world. Hun- dreds of men are actively engaged in the multitudinous exercises which the occasion demands. Some are driving in the flocks from paddocks that are often forty and fifty miles away. Others are washing the sheep, drafting the va- rious kinds into appropriate pens, dip- ping those that give indications of dis- ease, and tarring the cuts made by the shears; while the shouts of the herders and the shrill barking of the sheep-dogs add to the excitement. In the long shearing-shed, roofed with corrugated iron, and furnished on one side with pens packed with sheep awaiting the rape of their fleece, a score or two of men, bent half double, and each with a woolly animal between his knees, rap- idly ply the gleaming shears. The warm and greasy coat falls around the shearer in unbroken masses; in a few minutes the sheep, a naked and gro- tesque parody of his former rounded self, is ejected through a small door in the side of the shed, and another, dragged forth by the hind leg and un- availingly kicking and struggling upon the slippery floor, is undergoing the same operation. The rapidity with which the most experienced shearers work is remarkable. A first-class hand will clip from 120 to 140 sheep in a day, and earn therefor the comfortable wage of 15 to 18 shillings. In many sheds the click of the shears has been exchanged for the whirr and rattle of the shearing machines, which, although no quicker than an experienced work- man, give a cleaner cut, and, in skilled hands, do not wound the animals. As fast as the fleeces fall they are gathered up by boys and carried to the sorters, VOL. XI.15 and thence to the presses, where they are condensed into bales, marked with the device and number of the station, and then loaded upon drays for con- veyance to the nearest railway by straining bullock teams. These pict- uresque trains of six or seven yoke of oxen are not owned by the squatters as a rule, but by professional teamsters, who follow the movements of the shear- ers, and truck the wool from the sta- tions at a price agreed upon. Arrived at the great wool stores of Melbourne or Sydney, Brisbane or Adelaide, hy- draulic presses squeeze three of the bales into the space that one occupied before, and they are then ready for their long voyage to London or Antwerp. The shearers are quartered on the station, either in the huts which sur- round the homestead buildings, or in tents pitched hard by, wherefrom at night are heard to issue gay sounds of revelry, accompanied by the dulcet strains of an accordion, or of fiddle scraped with strenuous bow. The shearers life, although a hard one, is free and healthy, and has its attractions. The shearing fraternity, like every other body of laborers in Australia, is highly organized, and has a powerful Union, with connections and ramifi- cations all over the Colonies. So im- portant has this body become of late that an opposing combination has been formed by the squatters, under the name of the Pastoralists Union, to re- sist their exactions. A contest unpar- alleled in the history of the country has recently been going on between these organizations in Queensland. The bone of contention has been the prin- ciple of freedom of contract, the pastoralists insisting that they should be allowed to hire anyone whqm they chose, and the shearers demanding that only members of the Shearers Union should be employed. There was no issue raised as to wages or hours of work, both sides being practically agreed upon these points. As the squatters refused to relinquish their rights in engaging whomsoever they wished, a general strike was ordered, every union shearer refused work just as the shearing season opened, and camps of armed Unionists were formed 146 STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. upon the routes between the stations and the railways, in order to intercept any free laborers who might come to offer their services to the squatters. The country was also patrolled by mounted shearers armed with rifles and revolvers, and uttering sanguinary threats against the station-owners and all who should venture to assist them. Many woolsheds and fences were burned, and only the timely occurrence of rain prevented the use of the fire-stick upon the dry grass of the runs. The squatters sent to Melbourne and Sydney, and brought up steamer after steamer loaded with free labor, and called upon the Government to protect them. The Government responded by sending to the scene of action police, mounted troops, and Gatling-guns, and marched the laborers through howling hordes of Unionists to their destination. Many arrests for intimidation, followed by trials and imprisonment, kept the strik- ers within bounds, and after three months of obstruction on one side, and dogged persistency on the other, the shearing was completed. The expenses of the struggle to the Government, the squatters, and the Shearers Union were enormous, aggregating, it is estimated, something over $1,000,000. The most serious aspect of the case is that, al- though defeated, the Unionists show ev- ery intention to renew the fight at the first opportunity, and, by striking at the leading industry of the Colonies, to involve an enormous class of land- owners and agents, shipping, brokerage, and commercial firms in the labor war which has already hindered by twenty years Australias full development. The labor of shearing is lightened and brightened by the number who en- gage in it. The toils of the lambing season, however, fall entirely upon the permanent force of the station, which is never large, and in an unfavorable year this limited contingent has abundant work cut out for it. The visitor to Aus- tralian stations is, in fact, apt to be surprised at the small number of men engaged upon them. The invention of wire fencing permits the vast runs to be cut up into convenient sections at small expense, so that the numerous shep- herds who were formerly indispensa ble are now no longer required. Indeed, the working force of the largest modern station may be limited to a manager, two boundary - riders, and three or four hands for general work. If the summer rains have been copious, and a rich car- pet of new grass invites the pregnant ewes, there need be no apprehension of unfavorable results. But if the blazing skies of January and February have withheld their moisture, and March has come and gone without its expecte& showers, there is trouble ahead, and much vexation of spirit. The ewes, scantily fed upon the juiceless grasses, grow weak, and when their hour of trial comes fall in thousands and die of starva- tion; while their offspring, deprived of sustenance, sprinkle the plains with piti- ful fluffy balls. When these conditions~ prevail the whole station must be con- stantly patrolled, the fallen ewes assisted to rise and gently led to the water-holes, and to the hay which is carted out by tons from the station-yard, while the motherless lambs are taken to the home- stead to be nourished by hand. But in spite of all attention hundreds will die. and all the flocks be much weakened.. In former years a severe drought in. lambing-time spelled ruin, and as many as 20,000 sheep often died on a single run; but nowadays the squatters are well armed against it and regard it with little apprehension.* One frequent accompaniment of drought, however, the squatter still holds in mortal terror, and that is fire. Every dry season brings its story of acres blackened, homesteads ruined, and sheep destroyed, and no amount of fore- sight avails to avert the catastrophe. A fire on the vast Australian ranges is as. terrible as the prairie fires of the Amer- ican Northwest, and a thousand times. more destructive. Driven by the fierce north wind that often bears down with hurricane force across the whole coun- try, it passes on with the speed of an express train, leaping the rivers, climb-. * About one-third of the total number of sheep on a station are breeding-ewes, from which an annual increase. of from Beventy-five to eighty-five per cent. is reckoned. It is considered a ~bad year when a fifty per cent. in- crease is secured. About one-fourth of the flocks are sold annually, in the shape of culls for the butchera or as store sheep to the small farmers, who fatten them for the market. Those that are poorest as wool growers are selected for such disposition. STA TION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. 147 ing the mountains, dissolving the for- ests, and burning to a cinder all the sheep and cattle in its path. To guard as far as possible against this calamity most stringent laws exist concerning the careless or criminal use of fire. Sta- tion hands in the dry season watch a lighted match as anxiously as if they stood upon a powder magazine, and on days when the north wind is abroad will even deny themselves their cherished smoke, lest a vingle spark falling upon the tinder-like grass should involve the whole region in flame. An equal dan- ger, in stations which front the rivers, or the tortuous creeks that empty into them, is sometimes found in fires op- posing element, water. Although the local skies are like brass, and the earth under foot like ashes, heavy floods may be collecting in the upper stretches of the river. The sheep have perhaps for days and weeks been cropping the scanty pasturage that the drought has spared upon the edge of the stream, which now consists merely of a suc- cession of water - holes between long stretches of sun-cracked mud. Then, in the middle of the night, perhaps, there comes the rush of clammy wind that forms the avant courrier of the storm, and when the morning dawns the river is running a banker, the plain s,as far as the eye can reach, are covered with a muddy sea, and down the tawny current the drowned sheep roll in thousands, entangled amid the wreck of fences and uprooted trunks of trees. Against such vicissitudes must the squatter strive lest he become too full of fatness and for- get the weak estate of mortals. The manager of a station must be a man who has had experience of these things and overcome them. In him is vested an absolute control of properties which their owner, immersed in other pursuits in Melbourne, Sydney, or even England, often leaves unreservedly in his hands for months and years togeth- er. His work is nominally light, but his responsibility is enormous. He must control every enterprise that is being carried out upon the often vast area under his supervision; attend to the stations equipment and accounts ; fore- cast, as far as possible, the occurrence of wet or dry seasons, and be prepared for either; see that the sheep are suf- ficiently nourished but not overfed, and keep himself informed as to the exact condition of every flock upon the run. He must vigilantly watch for the appear- ance of foot-rot (scab is now unknown in Australia), a neglected case of which may result in contamination that will cost his principal thousands of pounds; he must fix the date of shearing, and make full preparations for the lambing season; select the sheep for the market; separate grade from grade, and attend promptly to the thousand and one details which changing conditions thrust con- stantly upon him. The managers lieutenants are the boundary-riders, whose duty it is to patrol the estate and keep him in- formed upon every portion of it. These are young, active men, to whom fifty miles a day upon horseback is mere pastime; well educated often, not a few of them younger sons of patrician English families, all habituated to fatigue and hardship, and finding in the free, wild life of the plains a fascination from which they rarely break away. The nature of their duties may be par- tially understood from the following conversation. We had sat down to sup- per, the artist and the writer, with the station manager and two of his boun- dary-riders. One was old in the busi- ness, the other was acquiring akuowledge of his duties through stern experience. Where have you been to-day? ask- ed the manager, addressing the latter. I have been along the river for ten miles, then crossed over to No. 4 pad- dock, came down by the woolshed, and around by So-and-Sos selection to the house again. Ah! thats about thirty miles; you took your time about it. Did you find much water in the Seven-mile Bend? Well, there was a decent bit of water there. There was, was there? And how high was it? Did it touch the roots of the old red gum, or was it only up to the burnt stump? I didnt notice; it seemed a good- ish height. You didnt notice? What did you go there for if not to notice? I went there because I saw some 148 STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. horses there, and wanted to see whose they were. And whose were they? They were ours.~~ All of them? Yes, I suppose so. So you dont know? Did you take any particular note of their brands? How were they marked and colored? Well, all the brands I saw were our brands. One horse was white, and there were two black ones, one of them a mare, and four bays, one with the nigh hind foot white, and a docked tail. Well, Ill be hanged! And dont you know that that is one of old Mac-Tag- garts horses? Been on the station three months, and only a matter of a couple of hundred horses on it, and you dont know their marks yet? The fence is down somewhere; did you find the break ? I didnt go to look; the fence was half a mile from where I was. You go and look to-morrow. The idea of a man supposed to be a boun- dary - rider and not knowing MacTag- garts horses! And how high is the grass in the paddock with the last batch of weaners? Oh, its a pretty good height. But how highhalf an inch or an inch? I want to know how long its go- ing to last them this dry weather. And did you see any new rabbit burrows anywhere? I dont recollect any.~~ In other words, you didnt trouble to look. Youll have to keep your eyes open better than that if you expect to do anything on a station and so on for half an hour, with questions cover- ing every paddock, gate, water-hole, and a dozen other details of locality, which the manager had as clearly before him as if he were looking upon an elaborate map of the property. The boundary- riders course of education is arduous, but when it is completed he is like a carefully indexed book of ready refer- ence, which his superior can open on the instant at any desired page. The ordinary station hands fill the post of general executive, and with no distinctive duties outside the limits of the homestead are likely to be called upon at any time for all sorts of offices. There is always plenty of work for them, for, as most stations are remote from the centres of population, many neces- sary manufactures and repairs must be done on the premises. Blacksmithing, fence-building, the erection of sheds and outhouses, the digging and brick- ing up of cisterns, and the practice of a dozen other trades are constantly in operation. Besides these employments there is branding in its season, the breaking of colts to saddle and harness, and, in many localities, such commin- gling of work and sport as is found in curtailing the superabundance of rab- bits and kangaroos. There is also land to be cleared, which is accomplished by ring-barking the trees, and leaving them to stand until the slow process of decay brings them to the earth, where they are either set on fire or allowed to rot into the soil upon which they falL The growths of eucalyptus, iron-wood, wattle, and box, by their absorption of water starve out the grass, and their destruction is essential to the reclama- tion of the soiL There are few more ghastly sights in nature than an Austra- lian ring-barked forest, whose twisted limbs of pallid white suggest the spec- tres of men who have died in pain. Be- sides the working force of stations above enumerated there is usually a China- man, who assiduously attends to the growth of vegetables, which are as es- sential here as on board ship to prevent outbreaks of scurvya disease by no means uncommon in the early days when mutton and damper constitut- ed almost exclusively the station bill of fare. There is also a black fellow or two often loafing about the home- stead degraded, shiftless characters, the unworthy remnants of once powerful and dangerous tribes. Not infrequently they are the hereditary rulers of the dis- trict which the station now occupies for tribal bouudaries were well defined and carefully regarded by the natives who willingly relinquished a birthright they had not the power to keep for a warm lodging, enough clothing for de- cency, and unlimited tobacco. Him budgery (good) man ! he will often ex- claim, with royal condescension, when he alludes to the present owner of his acres; him alla same mate blonga mine! and receive his tribute of bacca with STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. 149 the air of one monarch accepting gifts from a less powerful cousin in the purple. Participation in horse-breaking is of- ten permitted to the visitor, if inclined for such entertainment. A heavy wagon is drawn out, equipped with a powerful brake, and the half-trained horses, with much kicking and squealing, and by dint of great skill and agility, are at- tached to the machine. The manager perches himself upon the lofty seat, reins firmly grasped and foot on brake, while three or four station-hands hold the vicious animals. The other partici- pants in the excursion tumble in over the tail-board as best they can; the horses are released, and plunge, and spring sidewise, and try to climb into the vehicle. The lash sings in the air and cuts cruelly, and after much com- motion and threatened capsizing, the team springs away at a zigzag gallop which may continue for a mile. The road lies through narrow gates, amid wastes of ring-marked timber, down one bank of a creek and up another, affording an exhilaration which even tobogganing or the switch-back rail- way cannot furnish. The driving, like the riding, on Australian stations is of a dare-devil sort, and an experience of either is not easily forgotten. The station-owners, who have had the courage, foresight, and endurance to develop the enormous domain of pas- toral Australia, form a distinct and characteristic class in the population of the Colonies. They are, almost without exception, men of strong physique and enormous vitality, as befits pioneers in a land which, while it has offered en- couragement to enterprise, has set the price of success very high in drafts on pluck and energy. There are few ro- mances more absorbing than the life- histories of Australian squatters, nor do the records of nations show greater mutations, conflicts, an4 revolutions. Battles with hostile tribes of cannibal blacks; storm, flood, and famine; finan- cial stringency and bewildering success in swift alternationno other race than that which sprang from the loins of England could have endured with equal complacency such enormous vicissitudes. This generation of pioneers is passing away in ripeness of years and the glow of great successes. Large families con- tinue the line, but they are not like their founders. Their life has been easy where that of their progenitors was hard; they know the ways of cities, and have had experience of travel and foreign ed- ucation, and in expanding their horizon have lost that singleness of aim and in- tensity of purpose which make the now vanishing squatter class such an Inter- esting study. The increasing luxury of colonial life, and the inevitable division of the enormous estates over which the early settlers ruled like shepherd kings, will ultimately result in the extinction of a class which may fairly be termed the mainspring of Australias wonderful development. The homes which the better order of squatters have founded are as interest- ing as themselves. Their houses are invariably well-built and commodious structures, standing amid choice gar- dens, which are like oases in the arid expanse of plain that surrounds them; furnished comfortably, and at times lux- uriously, containing libraries, and often equipped with many sorts of musical in- struments, upon which the ladies of the station perform with skill. Some of these structures are built of stone, drawn by oxen from quarries fifty, and even a hundred, miles away, and represent an enormous outlay, in that every aid to their construction has been furnished by timber merchants and ironmongers from cities which might seem to resi- dents in more settled countries almost to be on the other side of the world. Some few station-owners even possess picture-galleries of value, the most re- markable of which is that owned by Mr. F. W. Armytage, of Wooloomanata, between Melbourne and Geelong, which includes representative works by Mun- kacsy, Sir Frederick Leighton, G6r6me, and many other modern artists of note in all the leading European schools, and cost its possessor some 25,000. Most station residences have the ap- pearance of a home and a caravansary combined. The quarters of the family are usually supplemented by a commo- dious structure divided into rooms for guests, who are in the habit of appear- ing at all times and seasons, either with or without special invitation. If you 150 STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. are known to the proprietor you have but to express a desire to visit him, and are quite at liberty to come, and to bring your friends as well; the latch- string is always out, and come when you wish, do what you like, and stay as long as you can is on the lip and in the eye of your host, who is but pleased when he knows that your acceptance of his h6spitality is to be protracted. The hospitality of English country-houses the truest and finest in the world maintains here. Your host, his family, and all that is his, are fully placed at your service. If you desire to ride or drive, there are horses, saddles, and traps in the stables, and the servants accept your orders as a matter of course. Are you fond of fishing, you are shown a room stored with tackle. Should you desire to shoot, here is a rack filled with well-oiled breach-load- ers, and boxes of cartridges by the score. You go and come as you like you do not even need to make yourself agreeableyour host entertains you (not you him) and is amply repaid if, on your departure, he receives the as- surance that you have enjoyed yourself. Should you wear out your welcome, you never learn of it, and, indeed, your en- tertainers are glad enough to see faces from the outside world. Rarely is such consideration and kind- huess abused, although in my experience of station life I have heard of certain curious incidents. To one station, some years ago, came a visitor of modest means and frugal mind, who, on trial, decided that he could hardly find a more comfortable situation. His orig- inal intention of staying a month was reconsidered, and he remained two; finally six months passed, and he was still there. He enjoyed himself hugely with horses, dogs, and guns, developed an encouraging appetite, and his host did not complain. He smoked the to- bacco of the master of the house, and drank his whiskey, but still his welcome did not grow cold. After about nine months, however, the hosts manner be- came less warm, his whilom, cheerful conversation flagged, and at the end of the year he spoke no more to his guest. The latter was not sensitive, however, and lingered on for the space of a sec ond year quite unabashed, even though sitting at meat three times a day, and smoking a solemn pipe in the evening, opposite a silent and glowering host. At the end of the second year he finally departed and went to visit somebody else, without ever having been told that he had stayed long enough, and would do well to leave. Such is Australian station hospitality. The life enjoyed by dwellers on the stations is far more varied and interest- ing than the casual observer might sup- pose. It is a quiet existence in general, no doubt, but in the round of the year furnishes plenty of incident. There is always bustle and excitement during shearing-time, when the horde of work- men is about, and sheep are being rounded up on the runs, driven in, washed and shorn, and afterward drafted and marked ready for return to the ranges. Those that are kept back for sale are sometimes driven a distance of a thousand miles to market, being often met by the traveller over the plains in a confused and bleating army, marshalled by dogs, and followed on horseback by bronzed and stalwart youths, who carry on their saddle-bows the simple equipment for their four or five months journey. Before return- ing to their paddocks all the sheep are counted, being for this purpose passed from pens through a narrow gate, whereat stand three men keeping tally. One has a stick on which he cuts a notch for every hundred sheep; the others check or confirm each other in the enumeration. Anyone who thinks this operation easy can convince him- self of the contrary by trying it. The sheep, urged by the shepherds and barking dogs, come rushing down like a frothy Alpine torrent, as nearly solid a mass as individual bodies can appear. The tyro begins confidently One, two, five, eleven, then two turn about and run back, and three others jump over them. Where now be his calcula- tions? He gets confused and forgets his last number, and whether twenty or three hundred sheep have passed while he was trying to collect himself he will never know. Meantime the ex- perienced enumerators have been quiet- ly and steadily at work, disdaining to STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. 151 call out anything but the hundreds for the benefit of the man with the notched stick, and if, in ten or twenty thousand sheep, there is the discrepancy of a sin- gle animal between the two counters, one or other stands confessed inept in his employment. Besides the pleasant excitement of work, there is much occasion for pure recreation. There are neighbors to vis- it and to receive in tarnsome of them as near as forty miles, although this is considered a close propinquity indeed with whom there is discussion of in- dividual experiences, lawn-tennis out of doors, music and billiards within, a jovial dinner, and a stirrup-cup at part- ing. There are races, too, at the near- est township, where station-owners and boundary-riders meet within a radius of a hundred miles, and ride their horses and bet, and taste the sweets (dear to Australians, as to all other branches of the British race) of the grassy hippodrome. In the evening there is the race-ball, where all the salta- tory capers perpetuated from traditions of English dancing rules of fifty years ago are seen combined with the latest modes from Melbourne and Sydney. It is a point of honor at these assem- blies to dance until the light of morning gives pause to the revelry, whereupon there is riding home again over endless leagues by men and maidens, whom no exercise seems to tire. Then there are evening parties and hopss at some central station, the excitements of cat- tle - branding, cricket matches by the men, and, in many localities, water-fowl shooting and kangaroo hunting the pursuit last mentioned, on a swift horse, over a level plain, and behind a good pack of kangaroo dogs, being one of the most exhilarating experiences known to man. From time to time the stations are honored by visits from the rabbit in- spectors, whose duty it is to see that the pest of long-eared rodents is kept within proper limits. When the com- ing of these functionaries is expected there is great activity among the men and dogs of the station. Every home- stead has its pack of rabbit-dogsgrey- hounds, collies, fox-terriers, curs, and mongrels of all degreeswhose one aim and interest in life is to kill as many rabbits as possible. Spades, pickaxes, ferrets, and materials for making a smoke in the burrows are brought out to dislodge the game; guns are in every hand, and the entire force of the station enters upon a crusade in which hun- dreds and thousands of the bunnies are slain. The plague of rabbits in Austra- lia cannot be described without seeming exaggeration to those who have not had experience of it. Originally introduced in a colony of about a score of individ- uals by a squatter near Melbourne, who thought their familiar presence on his station would remind him of home,~~ they have kept the recollection of Eng- land so fresh in the minds of pastoral- ists as to tempt them to very treasona- ble language concerning her whenever rabbits are mentioned. The acclimat- ization of these animals in Victoria il- lustrates the mess that men are likely to make by meddling with the laws of Nature, who, as results show, evidently had very good reasons for not includ- ing rabbits in the list of native Austra- lian fauna. The step has lost the mau who took it no less than 50,000, as he himself has assured me, and he is by no means the greatest sufferer. I have heard of stations upon which the ex- penditures in rabbit bounties were 3,000 per month for a long period, while many properties have had to be abandoned altogether. The figures of aggregate Government expenditures and individual losses on account of these apparently insignifi- cant animals might well stagger belief if they did not appear in official sta- tistics. Mr. Black, chief inspector, un- der the Vermin Destruction Act, in the Victorian Lands Department, has furnished me, for the purposes of this article, besides the letters hereafter quoted, the following astonishing fig- ures from his records: Expenditures in Connection with the Destruc- tion of Rabbits in Australia for Seven Years ending December 31, 1890. Government of Victoria New South Wales.. South Australia.... Amount (approximately) expended by landowners, and loss through the destruction of crops and grass 2,700,000 Total 3,960,000 190,000 820,000 250,000 152 STATION LIFE IN AUSTRALIA. To these figures may be added Gov-