SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE. JANUARY, 1894. No. 1. CONSTANTINOPLE. By F. Marion Crawford. ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDWIN LORD WEEKS. their hair with henna, lose their tem- pers, and get into debt in the bazaar. But though all these things go on, as they do wherever human beings are gathered together, the closed doors and latticed windows of the long narrow streets present an impenetrable front. As one leaves the centre of business, going westward, there are fewer women to be seen, and the veils, strange to say, are more closely drawn about the face. The great Turkish quarter stretches through the midst of the city in the di- rection of the Adrianople Gate and the Kahriye Mosque. The houses are most- ly but two stories high, and in every stage of preservation. A solid brick or stone dwelling with projecting balco- nies, dazzlingly whitewashed and immac- ulate as to its doorstep, is followed by a tumble-down wooden cottage so dis- torted by the yielding of its timbers in all directions as to disturb an ordinary II. mans theories of possible stability. Next, perhaps, comes a low, open shed, kept by a cobbler, a small tailor, or a coffee - seller. Beyond that, the rusty grating of a public fountain or a tiny burial-ground not five yards square, the tall, weather-beaten head-stones leaning and lying in all directions like jack- straws. Then more dwellings, straight or crooked, a little mosque, another coffee-shop, a cross street and two or three sturdy horses held by skinny boys to be hired as cabs are in other cities. And so on, through many varieties of Copyright, 1893, by Charles Scribners Sons. All rights reserved. BEYOND the limits of the business quarter and the neighborhood of the public offices and ministerial buildings, Constantinople is one of the quietest cities in the world. The Turks home life seems mysterious to the European, though there is much less real secrecy about it than might be supposed. h~ the East, as elsewhere, the house-ser- vants gather together, gossip, and tell each other what their masters have for dinner, how often their mistresses dye VOL. XV. On a SteamerGolden Horn. 4 CONSTANTiNOPLE. the same view, over the execrable pave- ment, up and down hill, until you reach the neighborhood of the walls, along which a considerable part of the land rises abruptly like an embankment to the level of the gates and the open fields without. Everyone who goes to Constantino- ple visits the Kahriye Mosque, once known in Greek as the Country Her- mitage, a small but very ancient church, richly adorned with paintings and mosaics. The Mollah in charge is an enlightened Turk of the purest breed, with yellow hair, blue eyes, and fresh complexion and a descendant of the Prophet, too, for he wears a green turban. He also speaks a little French, and is quite as much interested in the archatology of his mosque as you can be. It is in a great measure due to him that so much whitewash has been re- moved from its walls, and that the building itself is kept constantly in re- pair. At the top of the aforesaid embank- ment there is a little coffee-house just built, and commanding a view of the city very different from most others. One is surprised by the totally new as- pect of Constantinople as seen from this side; whereas from the Bospho- rus one sees lit- tle except the architectural outlines of the mosques, inter- spersed here and there with a lit- View from Eyub Looking Over the Golden Horn. tle green, or shadowed by the tall plumes of dark cypresses: from this end of the city there appear to be on the whole more trees than houses. The fresh verdure crops up everywhere amid brown roofs. Below and on the left there is a glimpse of the Golden Horn. At your feet, in the hollow, lies the fa- mous little mosque with its three cy- presses, and the great buildings about the Seraskierat and St. Sophia are but shadowy outlines in the hazy distance. This part of the city is thinly popu- lated, and it has an almost desolate look. As the ground rises, the houses are fewer, and there are many irregular open spaces, covered with thin grass in spring, deep in dust in summer, and in winter deeper still with mud. And all along this side, from the Golden Horn to the Sea of Marmora, runs the great barrier of turreted walls which baffled Eyub, who lies buried where he fell, and which at the end made such long and brave resistance to Mehemet the Conqueror. Nearest the sea lies the fortress he built, Yedi Kule, the Seven Towers. The vast ruin with its great court, its numerous towers and gates and ramparts, has become in the course of events the habitation of a nondescript Armenian cobbler. After having been successively the strong- hold of the city, and the prison in which, by a rather liberal interpreta- tion of the law of nations the Sultans confined the Ambassadors of the coun- tries against which they declared war it was afterward used as a school and is now a mere ruin. The last time I was there I was wandering idly through the outer gate intending, as usual, to peer between the stones into the so-called Well of Blood, into which the aforesaid Armenian cobbler declares that the heads of a number of Janissaries were thrown when Mahmud the Reformer destroyed the corps. The well is deep and black, and there is water in it, and probably no bones at all by this time. In passing through the gate I stumbled against a stone which lay in the way under the arch. It was a bit of the head-stone of a womans grave, as was clear from the carved sunflower, for mens graves have a turban or a fez, ac- cording to the epoch. Below the flower a part of the inscription was still legi- blethe dedication to God, the ever abiding One and below that, in Turk- ish, the words: I have come to the garden of this world, but have found no kindness. More had followed, but the stone was broken off at that place. There was an odd pathos and pity about it, as though the unhappy woman, who- ever she had been, buried long ago out- side the walls, had come back, knocking once more at the gate of the garden of this world, asking for a little of that kindness of which she had found none in life. It was all very lonely and deso- late, the high sun beating down upon the withered shrubs and bushes and dusty paths of the garden which had once flowered in the court, and blazing more fiercely still upon the deserted hillock, the ruined mosque, and the mouth of the Well of Blood outside the open gate, and there, in the shadow of the arch between, the ghost of the Turk- ish woman asking for kindness and finding none. In order to form any idea of the ex- tent of the fortress one should climb at least one of the towers, though the view from the ramparts hardly repays the trouble. But the towers themselves are vast and gloomy places, some of them filled with wooden lofts, to be reached only by movable ladders, and formerly used as sleeping - places for soldiers. The winding stone stairs are so dark 5 Street Fountain at Stamboul. that the Armenian cobbler brings a lantern to show you the way. There were prisons below and prisons high up, prisons with windows and prisons without. The last French ambassador who was locked up here, when war was declared between Turkey and France in 1798, was Ruflin, and the room which is shown as his is dimly lighted by a single grated window, less than two 6 feet square, and at such a height from the floor that only a tall man can look out through it. It must be confessed that there was something imposing in the simple and straightforward disre- gard of the law of nations shown in im- prisoning the ambassadors of foreign powers. IJpon the tiled roofs of the towers the wind-blown dust has accu- mulated in the course of half a century Court of the Mooque of Sultan B~yezid. 4 CONS TANTINOPLE. 7 or more, and the shrubs and bushes by the wife and children and other la- flourish abundantly. The cobbler says dies of the family; and here I may that the ghosts of the executed excel- say, in passing, that very few Turks lencies whose heads were formerly set nowadays have more than one wife, up on the edge of the ramparts, as they though the Koran allows every man were on Temple Bar, wander at night four at a time, and encourages a con- in this hanging garden. stant change by facilitating divorce. The traditional Turk with his innumer As in most Oriental cities, there are two distinct modes of existence in Con- stantinoplethe out-door life and the in- door life. The majority of Turks leave their homes in the morning and return late in the afternoon when their work is done. During the day they live out- of-doors or in the bazaars, but so soon as the Turk has com- pleted his business he goes home, and if you ask for him you will be told that he is in the harem and not to be disturbed; and, as a rule, his servants will refuse even to inform him of your presence. If it is indispensable that you should see him, you may await his pleasure in the selam- lik, the room for receiv- ing male guests, which is to be found in every Turkish house, and be- yond which are the mysterious regions of the harem. Harem, in the modern accepta- tion of the word, merely means the private apart- ments, and these would be called by the same name even in a bache- lors establishment in- habited solely by men, but generally it is ap- plied to every place in- tended for women. The end of the Turkish rail- way carriage, curtained off from the rest, is ha- rem ; so is the ladies cabin on board ship, and the latticed gallery in a mosque. In the dwelling-house it is all that quarter inhabited able women no longer exists, except as a very rare exception, but the Mussul- man has not sacrificed the advantages of the privacy granted him by the Mo- hammedan law and custom. Whatever exists or goes on behind the doors lead- ing out of the selamlik belongs to his private life, and no one with any knowl- Old Towers Outside the Wells sf Stsmbssl. 8 CONSTANTINOPLE. edge of Eastern manners would think squares, and in the shops of the bazaar of even suggestin0 the existence of eating, drinking, taking his coffee, and women in the house. His life when smoking, wherever it best suits his con- aw~ .~ from home during the day is venience. The consequence is that the pa Ved exclusively among men, and he busy part of the city is full of eating- does not even like to be seen in the houses and coffee-shops, and there is company of any female member of his no end to the itinerant venders of food household. I have once or twice seen and drink who carry their wicker stands up and down in the crowd. There is the man who sells bread and pide and pek- semit unleavened bread and biscuits ; there is the cheese- monger who has a round wic- ker basket and one or two kinds of cheese and yoord, or Turkish curds ; there is the cook who sells kebabylittle morsels of lamb or mutton broiled on wooden skewers, and pilaf, kept hot in a big closed tin, or stuffed spring squashes and other vegetables ; not to mention the sweet-meat-sellers, the custard - makers, and the sellers of sherbet. Most nu- merous of all are the water- carriers. They generally have a cylindrical vessel strapped on their shoulders and closely cov- ered with green boughs to pro- tect the water from the sun; in one hand they hold the end of a flexible tube with a polished brass faucet, and in the other they carry two or three heavy glasses, with which, by a skil- ful movement of the fingers, they play a perpetual tune which gives notice of their whereabouts. C o mi n g from Italy one is forcibly struck by the extreme cleanliness of all these peddlers of food and drink, and by the highly appe- tizing appearance of what they have to sell. But besides these, there are a certain num- ber of kitchens and restaurants in the bazaar. In particular, there is a fat and rosy Turk who makes the best kebaby in the world, and whose little place is in a small court close to one of the thorough- fares. On the clean marble slab which forms the sill of the window, the rows of wooden skewers lie ready for use, pilaf Ice-cream Seller. a Turk driving with a veiled lady, far in the country on the Asian side, but never in StambouL During the busy hours of the day the Turk lives out-of-doors, in the streets, under the trees in the open DRAWN RY EDWIN LORD WEEKS. Entrance to the Municipal Garden at PeraAtter the ConcertTwilight. heaped up in large dishes steams by the well-kept fire, and a couple of clean, handy boys wait upon the customers, who sit at a little table at the back of the kitchen or out of doors in the quiet court before it. The composition of the favOrite dish must sound extraor- dinary to European ears. Pid~, or unleavened bread, is cut into squares and laid in the bottom of a soup-plate. Upon this curded cream is poured to the thickness of two fingers. Upon this, again, little squares of meat hot from the fire are heaped up, and the whole is seasoned with salt, pepper, cardamom, and sumach. It is exceedingly good and, what is more, v cry digestible, as those travellers will know who have been accustomed in Russia to eating sour cream with everything. Nor is the pilaf to be despised, though it would take long to describe the proper mode of preparing it, and to explain the differences between the four great pilafs of the worldthe Turkish, the Greek, the Persian, and the East In- dian, of which the Persian is, in my opinion, by far the best. The cook pro- 4 vides you with food, but not with drink, and if you require the latter you must hail the passing waterman and buy a glass of water or sherbet. Civilization, however, is far advanced in Constan- tinople, where every customer expects a knife and fork with his food, and uses them both. In Persia he would be giv- en a piece of unleavened cake, which he would have to supplement with his fin- gers. For my own part, it has always struck me that fingers should be con- sidered as much more appropriate in- struments for feeding than forks. I know that they are my own fingers and that I have washed them, but as for the forks in places of public entertainment, I am not sure that they have been washed at all, and I would much rather not think of the way in which they have been used. We would rather suffer much than use another mans tooth- brush, but we think nothing at all of using the whole worlds forka fact which proves the vanity of most out- ward refinements. But everything which the Turk con- sumes in the Bazaar is in the nature of 10 The Landing Place and Caf6 at Scutari. luncheon, his principal meal being al- ways taken at home and after sunset. In a dark corner of Bezestan there stands a little mosque with a small minaret, of which the pointed spire springs up like that of a toy house to- ward the high vault of the roof over- head. At midday, as at the other hours of prayer while the Bazaar is open, the muezzin climbs the tall tower and calls the faithful from the window above with as much zeal as though he were crying the summons from the highest pinnacle of Sultan Ahmed. But though it be midday there is no general movement among the crowd, as there would be in Southern Christian countries at the din- ner hour. For the Turk, when away from home, is nomadic and indifferent to regular meals, whereas the evening dinner or supper at home is a patriarch- al institution treated with due impor- tance and solemnity. There are Turk- ish families still in which a table is set in the selamlik, and is literally open every day to all comers, rich and poor. Anyone may enter, and he will be shown to a place at the masters table if he be of the masters class, or at another, lower down the hall, if he be an infe- rior. And in Turkey, to dine means also to spend the night, the entertainer be- ing expected to furnish his guests with beds, slippers, and sleeping garments. Of course the ladies of the establish- ment do not appear, but are served sep- arately in the harem. The chief butler of a friend of mine was recently heard to complain bitterly that the guests often rose very early in the morning and carried away the shirts and slippers provided them for the nighta poor return for such open-handed hospital- ity. It must be said that Turkish din- ners do not as a rule last a long time. They consist indeed of a very great number of dishes, but these are offered but once to each guest and removed with incredible rapidity by the servants. The street which runs from the Post- office to Nnr-i-Osmaniye is one of the 11 The Sultans Kiosk Sweet Waters of Europe. 12 CONSTANTINOPLE. most characteristic of Constantinople, for it forms the principal thoroughfare between Galata Bridge and the Bazaar. It is a nondescript and cosmopolitan street, crowded with shops and of- fices of every trade and every nation. It is a favorite neighborhood for Greek and Anne- nian dentists, the assurances of whose skill are expressed in enormous signs. There too, in the neighborhood of the Post - office it- self, the public scribes sit all day long in the shade, grave and impass- ive as sphinxes, and ready to lend their skill with the pen for the correspon- dence of the unlet- tered. Their cus- tomers are chiefly Turkish women, who generally veil themselves m o r e closely than usual while dictating in low and confiden- tial tones the mes- sages they them- selves are unable to write. The system is familiar enough in Italy and Greece, as well as in most Eastern countries; but it is worth while to linger a moment and catch a glimpse of some of those faces as they bend eagerly over the scribes table, watch- ing the swiftly moving reed pen. For Turkish is written with reeds, and the inkstand is a little sponge. Near this spot is the Yeni Jami, one of the beautiful mosques of Stamboul, fre- quented at all hours by a motley crowd of worshippers. Leave behind you the glare, the hurry, and the rush of the thronged street, thrust your feet into the wide slippers at the door, and enter the beautiful building at the hour of prayer. The contrast is sudden, sol- emn, and grand, and something of the deep mystery of Oriental life is all at once made clear to you. In the cool shadows Mussulmans of all ages are prostrating themselves before the Mih- rabthe small shrine which in ev- ery mosque shows the exact direction of Meccaor be- fore the sacred writings in other parts of the walL There is profound belief and devotion in their attitudes, gestures, and ac- cents, a belief as superior to the idolatrous super- stition of the far East as it is be- yond the convic- tion of the ordi- nary Christian in simplicity and sin- cerity. It is in- deed impossible to spend much time a m o n g Mussul- mans without ac- quiring t h e cer- tainty that they are profoundly in ear- nest in religious matters, and that the unfurling of the Standard of the Prophet which is occasionally hinted at as a vague possibility, would be productive of re- sults not dreamed of in the philosophy of Europe. Of all places in the world, Constanti- nople is interesting by the strong con- trasts which it presents at every turn, and this sudden change from the brill- iant animation of the streets to the solemn quiet of the mosques and tombs is one of the most striking. The mar- vellous richness of decoration in the in- terior of many of the Jamis brings to the surface the deeper side of Oriental character. As in most Eastern coun- tries, some of the highest developments of art are brought into close contact with the most tasteless constructions and hideous ornaments. The magnifi Old Gateway in the Wall which has been Slacked up with a House. DRAWN BY EDWIN LORD WEEKS. Street Scene in StamboulCaf6 Frequented by Greeks. 14 CONS TANTINOPLE. cence, in virtue of which the epithet gorgeous is so frequently applied to the East, is often thrown into even stronger relief by the proximity of a certain squalid tawdriness extremely offensive to European taste. But here, as in Europe, the arts are intimately depend- ent upon religion and upon religious ideas. The iViussulmans of the Sunnite sect, who do not permit the representa- tion of anything that has breath, have devoted an amount of attention to the art of writing equal to that which has been bestowed upon painting in the West. To the cultured Turk a piece of Armenian Beggar. eautiful caligraphy affords as much ar- tistic delight as we could find in the pictures of the greatest masters. The European may in time familiarize him- self with the Arabic characterwhich is a sort of shorthandso as to read it as readily as the Latin or the Gothic. But he can never, I believe, learn to distinguish the artistic values therein which correspond to our ideas of draw- ing, color, light, and shade. A Turk the other day pointed out to me a text from the Koran which hung upon his wall written in plain black upon a white ground. That writing, he said, gives me as much msthetic pleasure as you could find in any Titian. Such speci- mens of caligraphic skill are often richly framed and preserved under glass, but some of the most beautiful of them all are found in the glazed tiles used in ornament- ing the mosques and tombs. Some of these inscriptions are posi- tively priceless in the eyes of the Turks, and they are rapidly becom- ing so in the eyes of the European collector, who, however, finds it almost impossible to obtain the smallest specimen of them. For it is always in connec- tion with religion, and generally in places of worship, that the best objects are found. But art in the East is rap- idly decaying, and the secret of producing the wonderful tiles, of which so many thou- sands are still to be seen, is lost forever, while the manufacture of cheap and inferior imitations is altogether in the hands of the Jews in the Bazaar. In all legends and traditions of the East, the Arab horse plays an important p art, and when I first visited the horse market in Stamboul, I had antici- patory visions of thoroughbreds which would have delighted the hearts of Lady Anne Blunt and her husband. The dis- appointment was as complete as any I $14 have ever suffered. The At-Bazaar is on the east side of the mosque of Mehemet II. the Conqueror. Jt would have been impossible to choose a worse place for the purpose of showing off horses, were ~ there any to be shown, than the three- cornered open space, irregularly paved with cobble-stones of all sizes, on the steep incline of a little hill. This yard is surrounded by a number of wretched wooden houses, most of which contain a dark and ill - ventilated stable, where the few horses for sale by the various owners are kept and ill-kept in or- dinary stalls. Two or three unwieldy Hungarian brutes and a dozen or so of stout little Saloniki cobs are the usual occupants, and I once found amongst them a monstrous form of horse-flesh which recalled the legends of Here- 15 Tomb of One of the Sultans in the Court of St. Sophie. DRAWN BY EDWIN LORD WEES(8. A Glimpse of St. Sophie. CONSTANTINOPLE. 17 wards ugly mare and of the animal which the devil lent the exciseman in the Jngoldsby Legends. As to his legs, he was fully eighteen bands high, but his body was no longer than that of one of the aforesaid Saloniki ponies. His head reminded me of nothing so much as of a certain ancient leathern hat-box, a sort of heirloom in my possessi& n, weather-beaten under many skies and jaded in many express trains, hall- marked all over with a whole geo- graphical dictionary of names of cities printed on scraps of paper of every pos- sible hue. There was something so strangely unnatural about the animals whole appearance that my attention was rivetted by him for many minutes, and my guide, the splendid old Turk who is the chief of the horse-dealers, looked at me curiously as though sus- pecting that I meant to buy him. I was shown one animal, at last, well worth seeing and buying. He was led out from the depths of a gloomy den, which would have asphyxiated a Western horse, and received a very perfunctory grooming at the hands of one of the stable-men. But a more perfect Arab it would be hard to find out of Arabia. There were all the points I had dreamed of before visiting the At-Bazaarthe straight tapering legs, the small feet, the rather large and bony head, the tiny, sharp-pricking ears, and the fine silken coat of golden bay. He shook him- self, and snorted with evident disgust at his quarters, as he was led out into the bright air, a king among beggars, a hero among scullionsand at least a fragment of my lost illusion was forthwith restored. But there are few such creatures to be seen in Constantinople, though the law against exporting horses from the limits of the Ottoman Empire is so stringent that not even those highest in power would venture to transgress it. It is more easily enforced, too, than the regulation which forbids the taking away of any object whatsoever upon which are written or printed words from the sacred writings. In connection with the horse market ~ I am reminded of the Saddlers Bazaar, a small quarter by itself adjoining one of the principal streets of Stamboul, the Divan Yol. The making of saddles VOL. XV.2 and harnesses, and, generally speaking, the art of working leather, was formerly in high repute in a country throughout which horses, camels, and other beasts of burden were the only means of loco- motion. The rich bestowed the great- est possible attention upon the trap- pings and equipments of the animals they used, and the workmen who pro- duced these objects constituted a special guild. This art, like almost all others in Turkey, has greatly degenerated of late years, but certain things are still made better here than elsewhere. The Saddlers Bazaar contains, I should think, about a hundred and fifty shops, low, shed-like buildings in which the occupants sit upon little wooden plat- forms just above the level of the street, with narrow verandas in front of them in which, during the daytime, the fin- ished wares are hung up for sale. A great many things are made of so-called Russian leather, which is not more Rus- sian than it is generally Eastern, and of which the peculiar smell is due to the process of curing by the smoke of leaves instead of by the ordinary process of tanning. Here may be seen elaborate saddles, covered with leather or stuffs or velvet, of the sort used by rich Turks in the country, though long out of fashion in the capital, and matched with cumbrous bridles decorated with orna- mental hand-sewing. Saddle-bags are made here, too, of all descriptions, shapes, and sizes, simple and ingenious and useful for the long journeys on horseback into Asia which are often undertaken from Constantinople. But the best articles in the market are the mule-trunks of heavy Russian leather, admirably worked and nothing like which is to be found in Europe. There is no regulation in Turkey, I believe, against the burial of the dead within the walls of the city, but the preju- dice against the disturbing of a grave is so strong that a vast amount of space is necessary for cemeteries. Besides in- numerable tombs and many small buri- al-grounds in the neighborhood of the mosques within Stamboul, Pera, Stain- boul itself and Scutari are all bounded on the land side by an almost continu- ous chain of grave-yards. 18 CONSTANTINOPLE. Adjoining each mosque, as a general rule, is built the turbeh, or tomb, of the founder and of his wives and children. Most of these buildings are polygonal and in many cases octagonal, the eight sides corresponding with the names of Mlah, Mohammed, and the six Imams. They are the most richly and beautifully decorated buildings in the city, and it is in them that the most valuable specimens of writing on tiles are to be found. The bodies of the dead are, according to Mo- hammedan custom, laid in the earth at a depth equal to the average height of a man, the grave of the Sultan or founder of the mosque being always opposite the door, and those of his wives and children disposed around his in symmetrical or- der. Over each grave is built up a wood- en coffin or catafalque, of which the size corresponds with the importance of the occupant, the largest in Stamboul being that of Mehemet II. These coffins are covered with black velvet palls,very rich- ly embroidered with silver and sometimes also with costly shawls, all of which have been to Mecca and have lain upon the tomb of the Prophet before being finally placed in the position they now occupy. One of the most curious of all the tur- behs is that of Selimif I am not mis- takena Sultan who lies surrounded by his four wives and by no less than forty children, boys and girls, all of whom died in infancy. A little white turban dis- tinguishes the graves of the boys from those of the girls. In each of the great- er turbehs, in a silver box, is preserved one of the countless hairs of the Proph- ets beard, and a railing surrounds the graves, which in some cases is of solid silver. These buildings are treated as mosques, and the matted floors must not be defiled by feet which have touched the street without. At the head of the principal catafalque there are generally three or four folding book-rests of mag- nificent workmanship, supporting splen- didly illuminated Korans, from which the mollah in charge reads chapters at stated times in the day. Some of these illuminations surpass in exquisite de- tail of finish and color anything to be seen in Europe, and the finest pages of the most famous medheval missals would look coarse beside them. Besides the turbehs, there are small burial-grounds attached to many of the mosques, picturesque little places filled with diminutive graves and irregular tomb-stones, and thickly overgrown with shrubs and rose-bushes. It is not the custom in Turkey to keep graves in re- pair, and the monumental stones, being tall and slender and generally cylindri- cal, soon fall out of the perpendicular, leaning in every direction and lending the cemeteries a wild and fantastic ap- pearance. Until Mahmud introduced the fez, the headstones of mens graves were surmounted by carved representa- tions of turbans, but since that time the fez is in universal use, painted scarlet when new, with a blue tassel. Upon the column below the cylinder there is fre- quently a long inscription, beginning with an invocation to God or a verse from the Koran, and followed by a short ac- count of the dead mans life. The tomb- stones of women either bear no symbol at all, or, as in the great majority of cases, are surmounted by a sunflower or something in the nature of an arabesque or plant. The inscriptions on them are almost invariably in verse. In very rare instances persons of great importance have very elaborate monuments, which are usually ugly in proportion as they are intended to be beautiful, and like the others are allowed to fall to ruin. In most of these small cemeteries there are narrow, well-kept walks at a lower level than the graves themselves, and contrast- ing oddly with the wild growth of trees and shrubbery on each side. Persons reputed to have led holy lives are often buried, especially in the country, in soli- tary graves surrounded by elaborate gratings and covered by roofs or domes, and it is not uncommon to see them brightly illuminated at night with votive lamps, like the tombs of saints in Catho- lic countries. For Mohammedans not only reverence the memory of the dead, but believe in the efficacy of their pray- ers and intercessions. It is a common thing, too, to see the shrubs about the graves of sainted personages covered with hundreds and even thousands of scraps of rag, torn by pilgrims from their garments and stuck on the bushes in the belief that the offering will preserve the individual from sickness. But the most picturesque and wild of CONSTANTINOPLE. 19 all the places of burial are the great cemeteries without the walls. Magnifi- cent cypresses of almost fabulous age overshadow the vast area occupied by the bodies of the faithful, castinga deep and gloomy shade even in midday in summer; and there is little or no under- growth here, for the cypress does not favor other plants. As far as the eye can reach in every direction, there is an interminable confusion of gray tomb- stones, standing, slanting, and lying in every possible position which a straight object can assume. Here and there at wide intervals a spot of bright color is visible, where the fez on a mans tomb- stone has not yet lost its color under the weather. The, place is gloomy at mid- day, uncanny in the twilight, and ghostly at night. It is no wonder that the Turks should believe in ghosts, ghouls, vam- pires, and every conceivable posthumous horror. The belief in these things con- stitutes one of the most deep-rooted of popular Turkish superstitions, and the fatalistic Mussulman, who would readily face death in any shape, would tremble like a child if obliged to pass through a cemetery at night. As a matter of fact the burial-grounds are by no means safe places, especially after dark, for this very superstition makes them a very secure refuge for deserters and malefactors. But in spite of their wild and gloomy aspect and ruinous condition, or per- haps in consequence of this state of things, the Turkish cemetery is infi- nitely more picturesque than the Chris- tian churchyard, with its abominably tasteless monuments, its trim salad-like flower beds, and its insipid inscriptions as superior in interest to an intelli- gent being as the primawal forest is to the creations of a landscape gardener. Modern religious art seems to be bad because it has kept pace with modern fashion, an error of which the Mussul- man cannot be accused. There is some- thing incongruous in treating dead men like books, to be arranged in neat order and catalogued as volumes are in a library. No one who clings to old L fashioned ideas can conceive of finding rest in such a neat and business-like establishment as a modern Christian cemetery. Since we do not believe in the worship of ancestors, as the Chinese do, and since those of us who believe in a future state are convinced that rest and reward or unrest and punish- ment are for the soul and not for the body, it seems both foolish and wicked to expend enormous sums for the pres- ervation of what is by the hypothesis utterly worthless. Better to lie on the mountain-side under the sky, or to be dropped into the sea with a weight at ones feet, or at least to be put quietly away without expenseor even to oc- cupy a nameless grave under the Turk- ish cypresses, than to be the prey of the modern undertaker, sexton, marble- cutter, and municipality. But, after all, though death be a matter of necessity, burial will always be a matter of taste. I have hitherto said little about Pera, Galata, and the thickly populated sub- urbs on the northern side of the Golden Horn. The ancient city of the Genoese never formed a part of Constantinople, and will never be really incorporated with the Turkish capital. It is true that the Sultan now lives in Yildiz Kiosk, above the farther end of Beshik Tash, the cradle stone, on the Bos- phorus, and the presence of the sover- eign has naturally attracted a great number of high officials to the neigh- borhood. But Pera and Galata are chiefly inhabited by Christians and Jews, many of them being Europeans, and the aspect of the streets is conse- quently far less Oriental and less inter- esting. Pera, as everyone knows, is the aristocratic quarter, in which the Euro- pean Embassies have their residences in winter and where successful Levan- tine financiers build themselves gor- geous palaces in the midst of reeking slums. As for Galata, it is the ferment- ing vat of the scum of the earth. It is doubtful whether in any city in the globe such an iniquitous population could be found as that which is hud- dled together by the waters edge from Kassim Pasha to Tophane. It is indeed an interesting region to the student of criminal physiognomy, for the lowest types of what must necessarily be called the civilized criminal classes fill the filthy streets, the poisonous lanes, and the reeking liquor-shops, the terror of the Europeans above and the object 20 CONSTANTINOPLE. of righteous hatred and loathing to the Turks on the other side. The Greeks and Armenians, who lead a sort of un- derground existence, here make a good living, and by no means a precarious one, by a great variety of evil practices. Being all Christians, they all claim the protection of one or other of the Euro- pean Embassies, and the political situa- tion of Turkey renders it practically impossible for the Ottoman authorities to arrest or punish one of these male- factors, the slightest interference with whose liberty might at once be made a casus belli by the foreign govern- ment whose protection he would claim. There is hardly a liquor-shop in Galata, and there are few even among the more respectable caf6s in Pera, in which a gambling hell is not kept in a quiet room at the back of the establishment. If the visitors good luck survives the ordeal of a roulette - table having two zeros and nine or ten numbers, so that he actually wins something that he might take away with him, the estab- lishment has at its disposal a private police force to rob hint and, if neces- sary, to cut his throat so soon as he makes for the door. As for Scutari, on the other side of the Bosphorus, it is a city of a very different type. The Turk is an Asiatic, and at the junction of the two con- tinents distinguishes very clearly be- tween the two. There are compara- tively few Christians on the Asian side, and the houses which line the quiet streets show by their latticed windows that they are inhabited by Mussulmans. There is a certain air of peace, if not of prosperity, about Scutari, which is very restful after the crowded bazaars of Stamboul and the choking slums of Galata. There are few people in the streets, the carriages are old and shab- by, and in the country, if not in Scu- tan itself, these are outnumbered by the prim~eval ox-cartslow, long-bodied conveyances upon clumsy wheels, any one of them big enough to transport a whole family with its belongings. One often sees these family parties. The women and children, the former more closely veiled than. in Stamboul, sit close together side by side from end to end, the paterfamilias generally squat- ting by himself at the tail of the cart. His expression resembles that of the European father under the same cir- cumstancesa combination of anxiety, weariness, and shyness by no means becoming to the solemn Oriental face. The women, on the other hand, are intensely interested in the sights and incidents of the journey, and look long- ingly at your light carriage as you drive swiftly by. But there is not much to be seen in Scutari, unless you will take ~the trouble to climb the steep hill for the sake of the really magnificent view obtained there. Kadi Keui, the ancient Chalcedon, is a much more interesting place, is more pleasantly situated, and, moreover, af- fords an attraction in the shape of a Turkish theatre, the only one existing in Constantinople or in the neighbor- hood. The play-house is a flimsy con- struction of boards at the end of the broad meadow behind the town, the scenery is sketchy, the music abomina- ble, and the audience consists entirely of men. But the establishment is owned and managed by a first-rate comic actor, a Turk of the Turks, who, if he were well supported, would do credit to any stage in the world. There are not more than two or three perform- ances a week, which take place entirely by daylight, and it is the practice of the theatre to await the convenience of the audience before ringing up the cur- tain. Though the building is of the nature of tinder, everyone smokes per- petually, and as usual where Turks are gathered together, the ice-cream vender and the coffee seller are constantly in demand. The action of the pieces is located in more or less mythical Eastern countries, and the plays depend entirely for their success upon the talent of the acting manager and proprietor. But even for one unacquainted with the language, his acting is worth seeing. Beyond Kadi Keui, on the Sea of Marmora, and in full view of the Islands of the Princes, lies one~ of the most beautiful spots in the whole neighbor- hood. The Fenar Bagche, the Light- house Garden, is a lovely grove at the seaward end of a narrow tongue of land. In successive ages the ancient plane-trees have overshadowed a temple 4 CONS TANTINOPLE. 21 of Hera, a summer palace of Justinian, and the wild flowers which have over- grown the foundations of both. Here in the hot summer the sea-breeze blows perpetually; the Greek fishermen dry their nets in the sun and rest in the shade; and in the Bay of Reeds, be- tween the point, and the fashionable Moda Burun, a few yachts and pleasure- boats ride lazily at anchor. This side is rapidly outdoing the B& - phorus in the public estimation as a summer residence, and the land is ris- ing very quickly in value. The air is dryer, and in the evening there is not what the guides call the cold draught from the Black Sea. The shore has but one defect, the almost total absence of trees, except at such points as Moda Burnu and Fenar Bagche. Of the Bosphorus itself it is scarcely possible to speak within these narrow limits. There is a great difference in opinion in regard to its beauty, but for my part I do not think it compares with the Gulf of Naples or with the southern coast of the Crimea. An irreverent American recently said that the Bos- phorus was like the Lake of Como drawn through a keyhole. This is doubtless an exaggeration, but it is not without a foundation of truth. The massive towers of Kumeli and Anadoli Hissar, the European and Asiatic castles of Mehemet II., are imposing and pict- uresque, and the current of the Bos- phorus runs between them at a rate which has earned it the name of the Devils Stream. But there is little else that has any claim to be called grand between Scutari and the mouth of the Black Sea. On the other hand, the shores are crowded with villages, villas, and dwellings of every descrip- tion from the Imperial Palaces of Dolma Bagche and Beylerbey to the humble fishermens huts below Anadoli Kayak. Until lately the Bosphorus was exclu- sively and especially considered the fash- ionable summer-resort of Ministers of State, Ambassadors, and rich Greeks; but, as has been already said, it is now ~ losing its prestige in favor of Moda Burun and the Islands of the Princes. Nevertheless it has a charm and enchant- ment of its own. The low undulating hills are covered with gardens, many beautiful buildings rise from the waters edge, and the water itself is crowded with craft of all sorts. There is little to distinguish one village from the next, though there are a few points of espe- cial beauty, such as the Valley of the Blue Watercalled by Europeans the Sweet Waters of Asia, where the Turks congregate on Friday afternoons, as at Kiathane, with their wives and families and cigarettesTherapia, Buyukdere, and the Valley of Roses. At Buyuk- dere, which means the great valley, the Belgrade forest begins, stretching away for many miles to the shores of the Black Sea, as wild and beautiful a tract of woodland as can be imagined. There are good roads through it in many directions, and many bridle paths, over which one may ride thirty miles on a summers afternoon, almost without leaving the shade; and if one cares for contrastswhich after all are the levers whereby beauty moves the worldone may find them here. It is toward four oclock as you mount, and the quay of Buyukdere is beginning to. be crowded again; the steamers are coming and going to and from the pier, and the white-shirted Kaikjis are alert for passengers; the Persian merchants are beginning to un- roll their carpets for sale under the trees; a dozen smart saddle-horses are led up and down by Turkish grooms, the itinerant barber is shaving the head of a boatman in a shady corner, and the ice-creani seller yells dondurma kai- mak. Out on the blue water three or four white-sailed cutters belonging to idle diplomatists are slowly beating up against wind and current, and the smell of warm roses floats out through the gates of the Russian Embassy garden. You ride away from it all, through the narrow little street beyond, between the shops of the butchers and bakers and grain-sellers, to the broad Meidan. Up to the right through the valley, then, and away into the mysterious forest, till you have left it all behind you Stamboul, the Bosphorus, the Greeks, the Turks, the Armenians, and the di- plomatists. And at last, if you ride far, you will come out when the sun is low upon a bleak moor which ends sud- denly with the sharp precipice of a per- 22 DEEP WA TERS. pendicular cliff. There you may dis- mount from your horse and stand by the ruins which once were the house of exiled Ovid, gazing out upon the pale waves of the lonely sea, and dreaming, perhaps, of the land no longer distant from you now, which was the cradle of all those races, good and bad, that have struggled, and struggle still, and will strive for ages yet, over the worlds great bone of contentionConstanti- nople. DEEP WATERS. By W. G. van Tassel Sutphen. DEATH could not come between us two: What fear of death could be, If thou, its shadow passing through, But turned and looked at me? Nor yet could pain the vision dim With misty blur of tears The ~up now clouded to the brim, For him who drinketh, clears. Deep waters could not quench the light, The tender light that lies, Like splendor of the Northern night, In thy unquestioning eyes. Though wide the wild, unfurrowed sea, Though high the skylark sings, My love should build a bridge to thee, My heart should find its wings. I could not miss thee in the throng, Nor pass thy dwelling-place, No noise of war could drown thy song, Nor darkness veil thy face. With thee to mount from earth to sky, With thee in dust to sleep; What height for love could be too high, Or depth for love too deep?

22 DEEP WA TERS. pendicular cliff. There you may dis- mount from your horse and stand by the ruins which once were the house of exiled Ovid, gazing out upon the pale waves of the lonely sea, and dreaming, perhaps, of the land no longer distant from you now, which was the cradle of all those races, good and bad, that have struggled, and struggle still, and will strive for ages yet, over the worlds great bone of contentionConstanti- nople. DEEP WATERS. By W. G. van Tassel Sutphen. DEATH could not come between us two: What fear of death could be, If thou, its shadow passing through, But turned and looked at me? Nor yet could pain the vision dim With misty blur of tears The ~up now clouded to the brim, For him who drinketh, clears. Deep waters could not quench the light, The tender light that lies, Like splendor of the Northern night, In thy unquestioning eyes. Though wide the wild, unfurrowed sea, Though high the skylark sings, My love should build a bridge to thee, My heart should find its wings. I could not miss thee in the throng, Nor pass thy dwelling-place, No noise of war could drown thy song, Nor darkness veil thy face. With thee to mount from earth to sky, With thee in dust to sleep; What height for love could be too high, Or depth for love too deep? AN INCORRIGIBLE POET. By Bliss Perry. T was the very end of summer, and there were yellowing leaves upon the lower branches of the birch- es that lined a narrow valley in the Vosges. But not a leaf was stirring in the dead air of the late forenoon, and Philander Atkinson, American poet, climbed slow- ly and with some weariness along the bed of the shrunken stream. He was thinner than three years before, when he had had that strange talk with his friend Darnel, and had shortly after sailed for Europe without even bidding Darnel good-by. This last June the fever had clutched him at Capri. All through July and August he had lain in a hospi- tal on the hill-slope above Naples, and it was only within two weeks that he had felt able to get North again, and to try a walking-trip, by easy stages, in lower Alsace. To-day he shifted his knapsack restlessly. The glare of the sun made him dizzy after a while and he wondered if he had quite thrown off the fever. Just then the valley narrowed to a gorge; the birches and the sunlight fell away together~ and the shadow of huge fir-trees blackened the creeping surface of a pooL At its head the streamlet slipped almost noiselessly over bright- beaded moss, at its foot the overflow trickled away again beneath an arch of heavy masonry, while right and left through the sombre firs stretched a Roman wall. Rome again! Atkinson threw off his knapsack and drank of the shadowed water, then lay back list- lessly against the gray walL Rome again! There was no escaping her. Wher ever he had wandered in Europe he had found the arch or the road, the word or law, that spoke still of the worlds mis- tress. When he first landed he scarce- ly thought of the Mediterranean coun- tries. A sudden legacy had set him free from the pretence of calling himself a lawyer, and he had taken passage for Germany with the duplicate proofs of his first volume of verses in his bag. To the second edition, issued the follow- ing autumn, he had added Jn Heines Land, poems on German themes. For the Muses had been gracious to Philan- der, and keeping him far from the Ger- mandom of lecture-rooms and barracks, had sent him into Thuringia and the Hartz, the Black Forest and the Bavarian Alps, the last refuge-places of Romance. Critical notices of In Heines Land which reached him from time to time praised the advance upon the cleverness, the mere brightness, of his earlier verse. His touch was certainly softer, and now and then he struck a deeper note than had been his wont since he began to publish. In Bavaria he always went to church. An old priest who was his companion for a week at a Salzburg inn thought him ripe for conversion, and Atkinson did indeed come to the convic- tion that some of his walk and conversa- tion with Darnel in New York had been rather godless. A new world of emo- tional life opened before him. He com- prehended instinctively, as he thought, such apparently separate phenomena as the South German peasant, the early drawings of Dtirer, and the heart-break- ing change of key in Heines songs. Back of the thirteenth century his mind rarely wandered, nor very far forward into the nineteenth, and he thought seriously of renting a couple of rooms

AN INCORRIGIBLE POET. By Bliss Perry. T was the very end of summer, and there were yellowing leaves upon the lower branches of the birch- es that lined a narrow valley in the Vosges. But not a leaf was stirring in the dead air of the late forenoon, and Philander Atkinson, American poet, climbed slow- ly and with some weariness along the bed of the shrunken stream. He was thinner than three years before, when he had had that strange talk with his friend Darnel, and had shortly after sailed for Europe without even bidding Darnel good-by. This last June the fever had clutched him at Capri. All through July and August he had lain in a hospi- tal on the hill-slope above Naples, and it was only within two weeks that he had felt able to get North again, and to try a walking-trip, by easy stages, in lower Alsace. To-day he shifted his knapsack restlessly. The glare of the sun made him dizzy after a while and he wondered if he had quite thrown off the fever. Just then the valley narrowed to a gorge; the birches and the sunlight fell away together~ and the shadow of huge fir-trees blackened the creeping surface of a pooL At its head the streamlet slipped almost noiselessly over bright- beaded moss, at its foot the overflow trickled away again beneath an arch of heavy masonry, while right and left through the sombre firs stretched a Roman wall. Rome again! Atkinson threw off his knapsack and drank of the shadowed water, then lay back list- lessly against the gray walL Rome again! There was no escaping her. Wher ever he had wandered in Europe he had found the arch or the road, the word or law, that spoke still of the worlds mis- tress. When he first landed he scarce- ly thought of the Mediterranean coun- tries. A sudden legacy had set him free from the pretence of calling himself a lawyer, and he had taken passage for Germany with the duplicate proofs of his first volume of verses in his bag. To the second edition, issued the follow- ing autumn, he had added Jn Heines Land, poems on German themes. For the Muses had been gracious to Philan- der, and keeping him far from the Ger- mandom of lecture-rooms and barracks, had sent him into Thuringia and the Hartz, the Black Forest and the Bavarian Alps, the last refuge-places of Romance. Critical notices of In Heines Land which reached him from time to time praised the advance upon the cleverness, the mere brightness, of his earlier verse. His touch was certainly softer, and now and then he struck a deeper note than had been his wont since he began to publish. In Bavaria he always went to church. An old priest who was his companion for a week at a Salzburg inn thought him ripe for conversion, and Atkinson did indeed come to the convic- tion that some of his walk and conversa- tion with Darnel in New York had been rather godless. A new world of emo- tional life opened before him. He com- prehended instinctively, as he thought, such apparently separate phenomena as the South German peasant, the early drawings of Dtirer, and the heart-break- ing change of key in Heines songs. Back of the thirteenth century his mind rarely wandered, nor very far forward into the nineteenth, and he thought seriously of renting a couple of rooms 24 AN INCOkRIGIBLE POET. in Marburg Castle and settling down to the new dream of his life, the revivi- fication of romantic poetry. Then, one restless day, he promised a friend, a young Australian painter, to spend the next winter on the Nile. It was an evil hour for Philander, and the guardian Muses must have slept. Lit- tle by little the North faded from his mind its art, its serious faith, his own imaginative impulse all these grew unreal under the Egyptian sky. But he never wrote such facile verse as on the deck of the dhahabiyeh, pipe in mouth, with the Australian forever in- terrupting him to discuss color-values. He discovered that three or four dozen Arabic words en]~rged his rhyme-list marvelously, and that his readers liked that sort of thing. Oriental Overtones, a collection that his publishers issued in the spring at a dollar and a quarter, the cover ornamented with a pink camel squatting before a blue pyramid, was lauded for its gorgeous imagery and sonorous diction, and netted poor Phi- lander in the first six months the mu- nificent sum of twenty - seven dollars and a half. Poor Philanderfor the Australian told him that the Over- tones were rot, and he knew it well enough himself. They parted ~ Syria, the American journeying westward, along a Roman road. But he lingered on the shores of the Mediterranean, for here he made new discoveries in himself. He found a sense of beauty impatient of mystery or awe, a feeling for the harmony of line, a satisfaction in subtleties of light and shade. He gazed at blue water and volcanic headland and graying tem- ple until he felt that his eye was right at last. An enthusiasm for the classics, forgotten since his school-days, awoke in him. There was no use in trying to write like Byron or even like lIJhland, but he really thought, after two months in Sicily, that he could imitate Theocri- tus. At least he translated Theocritus, then turned to Virgil and Horace again, steadied his sense of form, trained him- self into a cool paganism of temper, and wrote verses delicate yet firm in outline as the sculptures on a sarcophagus. Henceforward he determined to be a classicist, to restrict the quantity of his poetry, to be less lavish with its hues, less individual in its form, but to aim at perfection. He quite outgrew, as he supposed, that transient mediawalism. His dreams went backward to the love- ly Gra~co-Roman world, and forward too, for one day, on the rocks at Capri, he saw more clearly than ever before what might, with good fortune, be his place among twentieth-century poets. And the next day the fever took him. Rome and Sicily, Marburg and the Nile, alter- nated with one another in his delirium for weeks and weeks, while the sisters of the hospital counted quiet prayers for him, pagan as he was. It was of all this that Philander was thinking, as he lay there in the Alsatian valley, with his head against a Roman walL The coolness of the place was in- finitely restful, and the fir-forest brought back many an outworn dream. He watched the eddies of the pool circle away from a broad rock that lay mid- stream, its top almost touched by the stealthy water, and thought of the folk- lore of the North, the stories of Undine and of the water-sprites, the maidens of the spring and nymphs of the wave, and thence his mind wandered aimlessly to the sea-goddesses of the South. Scarce- ly could he keep his eyelids apart, so drowsy had he grown, and he smiled drowsily at his own fancies, and wished the fever had left his head steadier for these long mornings in the Alsatian sun. All at once she was thereher feet just free from the clear ripples which washed that broad rock in the middle of the pool, the water still trickling from her glistening limbs and luminous body, and dripping from her upraised arms as she knotted her wet yellow hair. Then she leaned forward, with fingers clasped about her rounded knees, her friendly blue eyes fixed upon Philander, and a slight, inscrutable smile upon the full contented lips. My brother she said, and he knew her at that word, and his breath came slower. It was no maiden of the spring, nor wave-born goddess of the doves; she was the calm Classic Muse whose in- spiration he had sought at many a lone- ly place and quiet hour on the shore of the Mediterranean. AN INCORRIGIBLE POET. 25 Shall I tell you something, my brother? I have known you a long while, ever since that day at Brindisi, when you thought you turned your back forever on the North. I pitied you at Capri for your fruitless gazing across the water, and I wished to come to you in your fever, while the bla~k-robcd sis- ters were asleep. But it is better that I waited until now. Do you not know, poor boy, that it is all in vain that you seek me? You were born too late, and I, who am very oldyou need not smile know very well that no hour comes twice, not even to us of the timeless world. There were two men in this century of yours who might perhaps have given themselves to me utterly. One was a Jew boy who fell in love with his cousin and broke his heart, so that I could not teach him a single note, though he and I sat together one noon in the Hartz forest, and he used to cry out for me passionately now and then. The other was a tall Englishman whose heart was troubled about his God, so that he could look at me only for a moment, though I drew near him Thore than once in the high Alps. They were born too late, like you, and into a world which is not mine. But what matters it ? - Each to his own world. Why do you give yourself the fever? I love you, my brother of this strange new age, but you must never try to behold me any more. You have your own world, and I am told it is a brave one: why do you look back?~~ Atkinson opened his eyes slowly. The streamlet was still murmuring over the moss, but no voice mingled with its tune; upon the broad rock a gray bird was tiltina, and the beautiful nude form no longer gleamed against the brown shadows. He sprang to his feet. His head felt strangely clear. The dizziness had gone, as if the lingering Italian fever had been exorcised by his draught from the mountain stream, but a las- situde had taken its place. He knew he had been dreaming, yet he felt ten & ~ years older than when he had flung himself down against that lichen-cov- ered walL Something was broken in him. He remembered each syllable that had fallen from those musical, sensuous lips, and for an instant his own heart lay open before him as the water-deeps. The dream-divinity was right: no hour comes twice. The hour for that fair Grmco-Roman world was past, and not even a poet could bring it back again, or strive to tarry in it save to his own hurt. How blind he had been, ever since that day at Brindisi! Mechanically he shouldered his knap- sack, and started up the valley. His feet stumbled once and again upon the narrow path, and he wondered if he had strength enough to finish the climb to Ueber-See-und-Thala famous monas- tery once, then a convent, but half secu- larized now amid become a show-place. The rocky wall of the gorge kept crowd- ing closer upon the thin stream, sliding inertly from pool to pool. The air was heavy with balsamic odors; at every turn in the path there was something to remind Philander of that world of romance which had so long held him captive. It was like getting home again. Here was a hollow under the cliffs fit for a Siegfrieds dragon; there a lonely rock-walled glade like the one in the incantation scene of Der Frei- schfltz. Airs of operas, bits of poetry, whimsical legends, slipped back into his mind as if they had never been absent from it. As h~neared the val- leys head there was a view backward through the jagged fir-trees, past the sunlit hazy slopes of birch and beech, and out upon the wide Rhine-plain, misty even in high noon; and there was a charm, a mysterious fascination about it all, after those clear, pale distances in Italy! But he was too weary to stand look- ing, and pushed on across the hot pas- ture-land and up to the walls of the Ueber-See-und-ThaL The path led him close to the door of the lower chapel, and he loosened his knapsack and went in. His guide-book had told him that the chapel to Mary of the Fir-tree was very old, yet he was scarcely prepared for the crudeness and simplicity that marked the interior, as his eye grew accusto~ted to its twilight. The sand- stone statue of the Yirgin belonged to the earliest period of Northern sculpt- ure; the black font was worn deeply at the side by centuries of finger- 26 AN INCORRIGIBLE POET. touches; the rude benches of darkened pine were soiled with the candle-drip- pings of Alsatian pilgrims. Faith was still unshaken in this nook of the Vos- ges. Before the tawdry, pitiful altar was crouching an old woman, her face bowed to her knees, her crooked fingers trembling over her rosary; and the huge stone pillar by the door, built when Barbarossa was a child, was hung around with votive offeringspoor little tin figures of, broken limbs, and waxen hearts, and yellowing slips of paper la- boriously written with Pray for Me, Pray for Us, Dear Mary of the Fir- tree, I am Thankful Philander mur- mured the words softly to himself, be- fore he went out. A few sisters of the suppressed relig- ious order had been allowed to remain at liJeber-See-und-Thal to provide for the wants of the pilgrims and sight- seers, and the American was shown to the refectory and served with a din- ner of boiled beef and turnips, with black bread and the white wine of Oberhausbergen. The nun who waited upon him had a round, childish face, with eyes serious as a Madonnas and of a brown that he had never seen outside of the Black Forest. She spoke French badly. Philander watched her, and as he finished the simple meal, pointed to the open door of the refectory. Far below was the Rhine, and beyond it, almost hidden in the haze, there were dim mountain lines. That is the Hornisgrtinde over there, is it not?, he asked, in the Black Forest dialect. A startled look came into her eyes, and her grave mouth grew curiously wistful. Certainly, she answered, in the same drawling gutturals, without fol- lowing the direction of his hand. That is the Hornisgrtinde. She paused a moment in embarrassment. I thought you were not French. The gentleman is an American.~~ But I have lived in the Black For- est, asserted Philander, for months and months. And I was born there. She glanced toward the doorway now, as if scarcely conscious of the strangers presence. I was sure of it. And how came you here? He had gone too far. She turned to him, almost with terror. No, no! she cried. You must not ask. I have been here a long time, andI am very happy. Philander lifted his eyebrows. Do you mean that? he remarked, quietly. For answer she looked away from him, and gathered up the empty dishes without a word. When she returned she brought his coffee, and spoke French. Would Monsieur not prefer to take coffee upon the terrace? The view is very beautiful, and people come a long distance to see it. He rose and walked to the doorway, the nun following with a sugar-bowl and a tiny flask of chartreuse. The blazing sunlight made him hesitate. He turned irresolutely, and took a long look at the cool, dim refectory, with its dark oak timbers and whitewashed walls, and at the Black Forest woman, with her calm eyesand her mask of Frenchand her unknown history. Why do you look back? she asked, naYvely. Philander was strangely moved; those were the very words spoken by the smiling goddess of his morning dream; but could he not linger even in the shadow-land of Romance? He made no answer. There is a breeze under the linden by the north door, she went on, and there are tables there. I will show you. He followed, without noticing whither she was taking him. There, Mon- sieur, she said, here is the coffee, and the sugar, and the liqueur, and~~ in a lower voice here are some Ameri- cansadieu! Philander raised his eyes. It was too late to retreat, and besides he rec- ognized Virginia Johnson, a former ta- ble companion at the boarding-house on Twelfth Street. She was a student at the Art League then, on the eve of going to Paris. Why, Mr. Atkinson! she cried, dropping the illustrated paper she was perusing, and putting out her hand joyfully, this is delightfuL Thank you, said Atkinson, rescu- ing her paper from its dangerous ~-4. AN INCORRIGIBLE POET. 27 proximity to her coffee-cup. You still read Life, I see. Of course. While theres Life, theres hope. Do you remember the triolet? Or have we forgotten our humble beginnings, sir U It seemed natural to have Virginia Johnson chaff him. No, he said, I havent forgotten. That triolet in Life was the first thing of mine to be accepted, and I have never doubted that it was your thumb- nail sketch that made them take it. Andexcuse mewasnt that your first acceptance too? And the week it came out you got the number first and gave it to me at dinner, with While theres Life, theres hope marked in red. She bowed with mock gravity. You deserve your fame, Mr. Atkinson. You are loyal to that dear old boarding- house. Let me introduce you to my father. An elderly gentleman in gray, with a felt hat pushed well back upon his bald head, laid down his newspaper and set his eyeglasses higher upon his nose. This is Mr. Atkinson, papa Mr. Philander Atkinson. She repeated the words impressively, as if hoping that her father would recognize a name already distinguished in the world of minor poetry. But Mr. Johnson shook hands in utter innocence of the honor conferred upon him, and was conscious only of the pleasure in meeting a fel- low-citizen. Glad to know you, he said. I tell you it seems good to find an Ameri- can over here. Havent seen one since we left Heidelberg; there were lots of em there. That was a week ago, wasnt it, Virginia? Three days, replied the girl, smil- ing. Well, its long enough, anyhow. There are nice places here in Europe, Mr. Atkinson, but a man gets kind of lonesome, doesnt he? Sometimes, admitted Atkinson, putting a lump of sugar into his coffee. Exactly. I should say he did! My daughter, now, has been over here five years, and says she hasnt been homesick once. I dont understand it; and he shook his bald head dubi- ously. Papa has been away from New Jer- sey exactly five weeks, commented Miss Johnson. We have made I dont know how many business calls on woollen manufacturerswhat comical times we have had !and now I want him to go to Normandy for a month to see some of the places where Ive sketched, you knowand he insists upon our taking the steamer next Sat- urday. Cant you talk to him, Mr. At- kinson? The man of woollens smiled imper- turbably, and took out a couple of ci- gars. I wish youd try one of those, he said. I brought over a couple of boxes; Virginia has been managing the custom-house e~d of it. And heres a Sun, if you like; we got our papers at MiThlhausen last night, and havent had time to read em until now. Nine days from New York to Mtihlhausen isnt so bad, eh? But Philander declined the newspa- per. The talk drifted to Miss Virginias art-studies in Paris, and by and by Mr. Johnson dropped out of it, and buried himself contentedly in the New York stock quotations. Atkinson found him- self studying the girl curiously as she chatted on. Was she the little Miss Johnson of five years back, who used to come in from Newark for five days in the week, and spar with Darnel and himself at dinner - time? She must have been barely eighteen then, but had already learned to manage her gray eyes with absolute accuracy and irreproach- able composure. She had been on fire for Art, but as to everything else cool as a woman of thirty. When Philanders triolet, illustrated with her sketch, had been accepted by Lfe, he had grown distinctly sentimental over their joint production, but she laughed him down to a prose level in no time, and pock- eted her half of the eight dollars with a most professional air. There was no nonsense, Darnel had once remarked oracularly, about Virginia Johnson; and when her father sent her to Paris, even the most acrimonious woman among the Twelfth Street boarders found noth- ing to criticise in her conduct, and could not help wishing her well. And this, Atkinson reflected, as he watched the radiant creature opposite 28 AN INCORRIGIBLE POET. him, was little Miss Johnson! She was grown taller now and more womanly in figure; her hair was done up differ- ently, as far as the Paris hat would al- low him to observe, and instead of the faint, clear color that she had had that winter in New York, her face was full- blooded and sun-browned, for she had been painting in the open air since May. Her eyes only were unchanged, but even they seemed more brilliant than of old. For a poor fellow just es- caped from the black-robed sisters of a hospital, Miss Johnsons travelling gown was a miracle of Parisian audacity. Its color reinforced her eyes peculiar gray, and the long su~de gloves that lay by the Lfe upon the little table were ex- actly the shade of her coiled hair. More marvellous still to the jaded spir- its of Philander, was the pulse-beat of a strong personality beneath this femi- nine and sophisticated charm. Through the clearness of her gay voice there was the subtle thrill that comes only with the consciousness of success. He remembered now that his friend the Australian, when fresh from Paris, had told him about some medal or other that Virginia Johnson had won, and he wondered why he had not paid more attention at the time. But there was something more than medal - winning back of that unobtrusive faith in her- self. And yet you are going back to New York? he said, rather discontentedly, as she finished an exposition of the latest impressionist fad. Of course, she replied. Ive al- ready rented my studio. Why not? Oh, I dont know. Whats the use? he asked, suddenly. She looked grave. Have you done anything since Oriental Overtones? You saw those? Most certainly. She did not tell them that she had cut the verses from the American papers wherever she had found them, and had cherished them for old acquaintance sake, though knowing perhaps better than anyone how bad they really were. Yes, I have done a good deal since then. But a very beautiful woman and a person who ought to know, I sup- poseintimated to me no longer ago than this morning that I have been tarrying among the tombs. His eyes were half-closed as he spoke, and he heard again the plash of water into the pool by the Roman wall. But there was a sort of mockery in his voice that Miss Johnson did not like. Where have you been this sum- mer? she asked, somewhat at random. Since June, up to two weeks ago, in a Naples hospital. It was not par- ticularly cheerful. Before that I was at Capri, and Paestum, and Taormina. I did not know you had been ill! exclaimed Miss Johnson. Why did you not let____ She stopped, flushing a little. Anyone of the Pa~is boys would have gone down. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! And there was nothing about it in the papers from home. No, lie said, such is fame! But what lovely places you have seen, said the young woman, with a change of tone. Yes, if you dont take the fever, he replied, quietly. And if you dont try to raise the dead to life. It occurred to Miss Johnson that the fever might not have altogether left Mr. Atkinsons brain. Involuntarily she glanced toward her father, who had strolled away to the edge of the terrace, and was trying to focus a field-glass upon the haze - hidden spire of the Strassburg cathedraL Did you happen to see In Heine s Land? asked Atkinson. She nodded. I wish you would tell me what you thought of it. Really thought of it, I mean; just as you did of the triolet be- fore we sent it to Life. She remembered, all too distinctly, the fun she had made of his triolet, but he was appealing now to her candor as well as her artistic sense. I thought there were beautiful things In Heines Land, she said, hes- itatingly; very gentle and very perfect in feeling. I was reminded of one of them this morningmay I say so? when we were in the lower chapel and I read to papa some of those prayers hung upon the pillar. Do you remember your own poem about one of those ill- spelled prayers? Then you ought to, if AN INCORRIGIBLE POET. 29 you please! And yetyou know you asked me to say it, Mr. Atkinsonis it really the best work you can do? Isnt it too foreign, too medi~eval, somehow? I know those old German mobfs are the loveliest things in the world, almost; they make me cry, and yet all the time I cant help thinking that they are not for us. Havent we something better? An artist simply must not hark back you should have heard our boys in Nor- mandy talk that to each other! You see one cant, if one wants to, andyou will forgive me, wont you ?wouldnt it be better not to try? She was leaning across the table. I daresay, he said, wearily, yet wondering a little why she had cared enough for his work to tell him the truth about it, and not quite free from the masculine fondness for a pretty womans preaching; but if a man is going to accomplish anything, he must do the best he knows at the time. Most certainly ! she cried. I dont mean that it wasnt worth doing, then, if you were in the mood. I never saw anything more touching than those bits of paper in the chapeL And I wanted immensely to sketch that nun who waited on us at dinner. You see I make that concession to Romance! Yet I imagine the poor creature, in spite of her face, is prosaic enough at bottom. Its partly her robe, you know, and the half-light of the refectory. Perhaps, said Philander, but you should have seen her eyes fill when I spoke to her in German. She comes from over there he nodded toward the Rhine and she has a history, or she never would have left the Schwarz- wald for the Vosges. Miss Johnson was silent. Its a little thing like that, he went on, impetuously, with a subdued passion in his voice, that makes me imagine there is still a place for poetry in the world. Here and there is an unspoiled corner of it, like Ueber- See - und - Thal, but there are not many of them left. Did you know there was a railway tun- nel beneath the rock where the Lorelci used to sing?~ ~ she answered, slowly, but do you not suppose, Sir Poet, that you could find women reclining in those railway carriages who are all the Lorelci was, and more? You are talking like Archie Darnel now, said Atkinson, dryly, but his heart beat quicker in spite of himself. Yes? Tell me about Mr. Daniel He used to be so ambitious, and I have never heard from him. Did you not know? Darnel and his wife were killed on their wedding jour- ney, three years ago. How terrible! she murmured. And how strange, after all Darnel meant to do? There was nothing so very strange about it, remarked Philander, bitterly; it was the most commonplace acci- dent in the world. A drunken brake- man forgot to flag a train, and so spoiled the great story. What story? I dont understand. Well, said Atkinson, I didnt alto- gether understand myself, but Darnels idea was this and he told of the ec- stasy of his friend concerning the Com- monest Story. Rut he failed to men- tion the fact that he too had known Mrs. Darnel, and that he had sailed for Europe the day before the wedding. She listened gravely, but with a light kindling in her eyes. Ah! she cried, as Philander fin- ished, if he had only lived! He was on the right track, was he not? If any- thing great is ever again to be done, it will be in that way. Darnel is on my sideor rather on our sidethere are so many of us! There are pictures, poems, operasoh, there are a thousand things to be done, and we fin-de-sicle people, we science - spoiled people there was a fine irony ii4 her tone must do them. And we shall do them! It is grand to go back to New York. Just think of the men and women there all trying for the same thing, and all trained for it too! And the great story may be written any day, or the great picture painted. Oh, it is beau- tiful here in your quiet corner of Ueber-See-und-Thal, and it was beauti- ful in Normandy, but it always makes me restless to get to Paris or London or New York. Workworlcdont you fairly thri]l with the sound of the word? Men my brothers, men the workers Please, Mr. Poet, what is the rest of it? 30 AN INCORRIGIBLE POET. Philander shook his head. He was watching her as a sick man watches for the daybreak. The artist in her was all on firebut the woman? New thoughts, or rather old forgotten thoughts, surged up within him. He took the chance. Yes, he said, deliberately, you tall exactly like Archie DarneL But Darnel was in lovebody and soul in love. Their eyes met. Virginia Johnsons fell first, but in that single instant he was clairvoyant enough to perceive why she had illustrated his triolet, so long ago, and why she had been annoyed that he did not telegraph when he lay ill with the fever. She had cared for him all the time. Halloo, Mr. Mr. Atkinson! called Miss Johnsons patient father from the terrace. I wish youd give me the exact direction of Strassburg. I cant tell whether Im focused on that spire or not. Philander rose without a word and joined him, leaving Miss Virginia playing with her su~de gloves. The Black Forest woman, who had been standing in the shadow of the refectory for several minutes, came forward to remove the coffee-cups. With a sudden impulse, the girl took out a gold piece, and thrust it into the nuns cool palm. Oh, no! said she. I must not. For the poor, then. If M.ademoisell~ desires. May you have the blessing of Our Lady of the Fir-tree! Then she glanced toward Atkinson with a singular expression, and added, timidly: And I wish you happiness, Mademoiselle. Hush! replied Virginia, severely. But her heart was dancing. Where do you go from here? in- quired Mr. Johnson of Philander, when the location of the cathedral spire was definitely determined. I am going back to New York, said Atkinson. There was a ring in his own voice that surprised him. You dont say! cried the elder man, delightedly. Passage taken? Not yet. Well, why not sail with me Satur- day? Its the French line, and Im afraid there wont be many Americans on board. Youd better join us. There will be Americans enough, said Philander, as they strolled back toward the linden. But I dont know whether I may join you. That depends. The Alsatian coachman whom Mr. Johnson had hired was fussing impa- tiently with his horses, for it was mid- afternoon. Philander stooped for his knapsack. You walked up all the way? asked Mr. Johnson. Ride down with us. Philander glanced involuntarily at Miss Virginia. You had better, said the girl, quiet- ly. He has been ill, papa, and in spite of her swiftness in reaching for the field-glass and turning away for a last look at the view, Atkinson saw the color mount into her face. That settles it, cried the woollen manufacturer, cheerily. Very well, said Atkinson, with a look that his hospitable fellow-country- man could not fathom. We will let that settle it. And I think I shall sail on La Champagne. His heart was like a boys. Coachman putin thatknap- sack. The Alsatian obeyed. See? added Mr. Johnson, triumphantly, turn- ing to Philander, these fellows under- stand you if you only talk plain United States to them. All the same, it makes me lonesome to travel where there arent any Americans. I tell you, it doesnt do man or woman any good to knock around too much alone. Thats just what I say to my daughter. Isnt that so, Virginia? But Virginia, with field-glass direct- ed rather vaguely out upon the Rhine- plain, stood motionless, as if she had not heard; whereupon Philander caught her travel-stained Life from the table, swiftly folded it and thrust it into his inside pocket. He was an incorrigible poet, after all. THE WOLF AT THE DOOR. By Charlotte Perkins Stetson. THEnES a haunting horror near us That nothing drives away Fierce lamping eyes at nightfall, A crouching shade by day; Theres a whining at the threshold, Theres a scratching at the floor To work! To work! In Heavens name! The wolf is at the door! The day was long, the night was short, The bed was hard and cold, Still weary are the little ones, Still weary are the old: We are weary in our cradles From our mothers toil untold; We are born to hoarded weariness As some to hoarded gold. We will not rise! We will not work! Nothing the day can give Is half so sweet as an hour of sleep; Better to sleep than live! What power can stir these heavy limbs? What hope these dull hearts swell? What fear more cold, what pain more sharp, Than the life we know so well? To die like a man by lead or steel Is nothing that we should fear: No human death would be worse to feel Than the life that holds us here But this is a fear no heart can face A fate no man can dare To be run to earth and die by the teeth Of the gnawing monster there! The slow relentless padding step That never goes astray The rustle in the underbrush The shadow in the way The straining flightthe long pursuit The steady gain behind Death-wearied man and tireless brute, And the struggle wild and blind! Theres a hot breath at the keyhole And a tearing as of teeth! Well do I know the bloodshot eyes And the dripping jaws beneath! Theres a whining at the threshold Theres a scratching at the floor To work! To work! In Heavens name! The wolf is at the door!

THE WOLF AT THE DOOR. By Charlotte Perkins Stetson. THEnES a haunting horror near us That nothing drives away Fierce lamping eyes at nightfall, A crouching shade by day; Theres a whining at the threshold, Theres a scratching at the floor To work! To work! In Heavens name! The wolf is at the door! The day was long, the night was short, The bed was hard and cold, Still weary are the little ones, Still weary are the old: We are weary in our cradles From our mothers toil untold; We are born to hoarded weariness As some to hoarded gold. We will not rise! We will not work! Nothing the day can give Is half so sweet as an hour of sleep; Better to sleep than live! What power can stir these heavy limbs? What hope these dull hearts swell? What fear more cold, what pain more sharp, Than the life we know so well? To die like a man by lead or steel Is nothing that we should fear: No human death would be worse to feel Than the life that holds us here But this is a fear no heart can face A fate no man can dare To be run to earth and die by the teeth Of the gnawing monster there! The slow relentless padding step That never goes astray The rustle in the underbrush The shadow in the way The straining flightthe long pursuit The steady gain behind Death-wearied man and tireless brute, And the struggle wild and blind! Theres a hot breath at the keyhole And a tearing as of teeth! Well do I know the bloodshot eyes And the dripping jaws beneath! Theres a whining at the threshold Theres a scratching at the floor To work! To work! In Heavens name! The wolf is at the door! THE ACTOR. By John Drew. ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. L. METCALF. o the casual spectator in the stalls, who beholds the actor strut and fret his brief two hours on the stage (sometimes not brief enough perhaps), the other life of the player, away from the glare of the footlights, is often a source of wonder and speculation, dif- fering as it does from the life of men in other callings. Nor should this pri- vate life be offered to the notice of his public, except where the natural mingling with his kind begets friend- ships and a commerce with others in his relaxation from actual work. It is dur- ing his hours of diversion that the actor comes into touch with the outer world, and there we may see him off the stage. There, too, he has the pleasing feeling that while playing, in the sense of amusing him self, he is working in a measure; for his calling demands that he shall, Bacon-like, take all knowledge for his province; and everything he sees, hears, or experiences in his hours of ease may some time stand him in good stead in his working-day world. Therefore, while (paraphrasing an his- toric utterance) the price of success is eternal work for the actor, and the capacity for taking infinite pains is de- manded of him always, the man who is serious in his lifes work on the stage finds a relaxation from the actual tech- nical part of his calling in the some- times agreeable, and always interest- ing, study of men and things outside of his theatre. It is understood, of course, that I speak always of the real, the serious actor, serious in his calling, be his m~- tier comedy or tragedy. And the indul- gent readerand I feel that indulgent must be the reader who commits him- self to the perusal of these pagesthe indulgent reader must remember that it is the actor only on his human and social, as contradistinguished from his professional and artistic side, who is to be seen and heard here. By hu- man and social is not meant private and personal; but a few phases of the actors life may interest many, apart from his professional doings which all know. To open, then, with the experience of the beginner, an aspiring youth, who the firing of the Ephesian dome being accomplishedelects to ignite the Hud- son or other convenient river in his- trionic fashion: Assume that he, with or without previous amateur training in dramaticsand I do most certainly believe that a knowledge of an amateur sort is of great advantage to the be- ginnersecures an engagement in a company, presumably and most prob- ably a travelling company. Then his experience begins. If he have a sense of the humorous, as I think most ar- tistic temperaments have, he will find in his first season a full recompense for the poor parts he will in all likeli- hood have to play, in the humors of his situation and his experiences in small towns, their theatres and ho- tels (Heaven save the mark !). Perhaps some of his experiences at the moment may not be as funny to him as they will appear at a later day; but let him solace himself with the old Virgilian quotation, Et hwc ohm, etc. They will serve for sweet discourses in the time to come. But in the meantime the company to which he has attached him- self, after infinite endeavor and much waiting perhaps, makes its first ap- pearance at a one-night stand, tech- nically speaking. (At this day, when all theatrical phrases have become current, it seems superfluous to define the techni- calitya town where they are to play but once.) If he has been gently nur- tured, his proud stomach may at first rebel against the extraordinary fare presented him at the hotel to which his slender purse has led him, and the won- A

THE ACTOR. By John Drew. ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. L. METCALF. o the casual spectator in the stalls, who beholds the actor strut and fret his brief two hours on the stage (sometimes not brief enough perhaps), the other life of the player, away from the glare of the footlights, is often a source of wonder and speculation, dif- fering as it does from the life of men in other callings. Nor should this pri- vate life be offered to the notice of his public, except where the natural mingling with his kind begets friend- ships and a commerce with others in his relaxation from actual work. It is dur- ing his hours of diversion that the actor comes into touch with the outer world, and there we may see him off the stage. There, too, he has the pleasing feeling that while playing, in the sense of amusing him self, he is working in a measure; for his calling demands that he shall, Bacon-like, take all knowledge for his province; and everything he sees, hears, or experiences in his hours of ease may some time stand him in good stead in his working-day world. Therefore, while (paraphrasing an his- toric utterance) the price of success is eternal work for the actor, and the capacity for taking infinite pains is de- manded of him always, the man who is serious in his lifes work on the stage finds a relaxation from the actual tech- nical part of his calling in the some- times agreeable, and always interest- ing, study of men and things outside of his theatre. It is understood, of course, that I speak always of the real, the serious actor, serious in his calling, be his m~- tier comedy or tragedy. And the indul- gent readerand I feel that indulgent must be the reader who commits him- self to the perusal of these pagesthe indulgent reader must remember that it is the actor only on his human and social, as contradistinguished from his professional and artistic side, who is to be seen and heard here. By hu- man and social is not meant private and personal; but a few phases of the actors life may interest many, apart from his professional doings which all know. To open, then, with the experience of the beginner, an aspiring youth, who the firing of the Ephesian dome being accomplishedelects to ignite the Hud- son or other convenient river in his- trionic fashion: Assume that he, with or without previous amateur training in dramaticsand I do most certainly believe that a knowledge of an amateur sort is of great advantage to the be- ginnersecures an engagement in a company, presumably and most prob- ably a travelling company. Then his experience begins. If he have a sense of the humorous, as I think most ar- tistic temperaments have, he will find in his first season a full recompense for the poor parts he will in all likeli- hood have to play, in the humors of his situation and his experiences in small towns, their theatres and ho- tels (Heaven save the mark !). Perhaps some of his experiences at the moment may not be as funny to him as they will appear at a later day; but let him solace himself with the old Virgilian quotation, Et hwc ohm, etc. They will serve for sweet discourses in the time to come. But in the meantime the company to which he has attached him- self, after infinite endeavor and much waiting perhaps, makes its first ap- pearance at a one-night stand, tech- nically speaking. (At this day, when all theatrical phrases have become current, it seems superfluous to define the techni- calitya town where they are to play but once.) If he has been gently nur- tured, his proud stomach may at first rebel against the extraordinary fare presented him at the hotel to which his slender purse has led him, and the won- A drous array of comestibles set before him, for the most part in canary-bird bath-tubs, and he will wonder at the entire absence of any of the plats set forth in wonderful French on the more or less pretentious menu, which an in- dependent and probably unwashed male, or perhaps pert and flippant fe- male attendant, has thrown before him. But let him smile superior to this, for more surprises await him. After swal- lowing, with as good a grace and appe- tite as he can command, the incongru- ous repast, and having with some amusement and distrust inspected the room he is to occupy for the mght, with its microscopic pillows and un- dulating, lumpy bed, its infinitesimal VOL. XV.3 towels, and the pink and latherless piece of soap on the wash-stand, he sal- lies forth to see the Thespian temple in which his first step toward fame is to be made. He accosts a native with an inquiry as to the whereabouts of the theatre, and is met with a reply the tone and expression conveying pity for his ignorance of local belongings that the Opry House is in a cer- tain direction. Seeing that the men- tion of Opry House produces a condition of vagueness in our young friend, who has no knowledge of pro- vincial nomenclature in the matter of theatres, but only knows that he per- sonally is not going in for lyric honors, and fancies that there must be some 33 Making-up. 34 THE ACTOR. mistake somewhere, the native offers to be his guide to the Thespian temple, where he says So and sos company is to play that night; misnaming the company in some frightful fashion, to the disgust and consternation of the newly fledged one, and beguiling the tedium of the walk with reminiscences On the Rialto. of the different theatrical attractions that bave showed in town during the year; miscalling, in ultra - bucolic fashion, most of theni; even alluding to the dramatization of Mrs. Stowes im- mortal work as Uncle Johns Cabin. Arrived at the Opry House the guide, perhaps, in matter - of - course manner asks for passes ~ for the show,~~ which the unfledged one is not em- powered to give; and not feeling that he can afford to buy the tickets, the lat- ter mutters some inarticulate thanks and excuses for his exceeding rudeness, and vanishes into the theatre. Night after night he goes through much the same experience in other towns, meet- ing many strange and thrilling, even perhaps romantic and tragic advent- ures, but coming out of them all still strong and determined, feeling that they are all crosses by the way, and that, despite these trifling obstacles, he is working steadily on toward the goal he has set out for. And d propos of the strange advent- ures that the actor may meet with, let me make mention of several. One is well known and has been much written and talked of. I refer to the sad and unfortunate affair that occurred some years ago in Marshall, Tex. I instance it to note the self-sacrifice of two men when circumstances made necessary the defence of a woman. The bare facts will speak for themselves On the night of March 22, 1878, a theatrical company playing iDiplo - macy, had finished their performance in the town just mentioned, and were awaiting the train to take them to Fort Worth, the next town on their route; the train did not arrive at Mar- shall until 2 A.M., and as is habitual with actors the company craved some- thing to eat after the play. All but two of the men and one of the ladies of the company were satisfied with the poor food the wretched hotel afforded, but these three unfortunately went to an eating saloon at the end of the station platform, where something more sub- stantial was to be had, and, where they were obliged to sit upon high stools to eat it, to their great amusement. They had been there but a few minutes when there entered a semi-inebriated man of huge proportions, who at once began to use the most violent and indecent language. One of the men of the party begged the keeper of the restaurant to repress the new-coiner. The creature, 35 The Soubrette. DRAWN BY W. L, METCALF. A MorHng RehearsaL THE ACTOR. 37 hearing himself alluded to, redoubled his violence and indecency; at which the gentleman who had made the appeal called him to order himself. The brute remarked that he could knock any mans head off, adding that he had no pistol or knife, and proposed to do for anyone with his bunch of fives, ex- hibiting at the same time his ponder- ous sledge-hammer-like fists. As there was no issue out of it but an encounter, the champion of the lady began taking off his coat for the affray, when the brute whipped out a pistol and shot him; the bullet entered the upper part of his arm and we cut it out of his shoulder at the back. At the same time the other man of the party got down from his stool to interpose to prevent bloodshed, when the assassin turned on him and shot him dead. A tragic affair truly, but unique in the annals of acting, happily for the fair fame of a State as well as for the un- wary player who ventures into those pleasing regions. This recital of a tragic episode (show- ing only what the actor in his every- day life may be called on to experience, with those in other walks) I must re- lieve with a semi-humorous incident of life on the road at which a late cele- brated tragedian assisted. Obliged one night in the South to take a train, to which for some cause there was no sleeping-car attached, he was fain to make himself as comfortable as circum- stances permitted in the crowded day- coach; but, alas! comfort or sleep were not for him, for there was a poor wom- an of the lower class in the car with a crying baby a baby with splendid lungs and a most painful and insistent cry, enraging to some and distressing to all. The tragedian shifted about in his seat, first on one side and then on the other, and as the childs crying con- tinued he finally gave up the attempt to rest, and, pitying the poor mother, got up, walked along the aisle to where the mother and the wailing offspring were, and said: Madam, permit me & to look at your child. The poor wom- an held up the complaining infant to his inquiring gaze, and being a man of family and noting the age of the infant, he asked, Madam, has this child had its VOL. XV.4 maternal nourishment? The distract- ed mother assured him that it had. Ah, then give it to me, said he. The woman complied and the tragedian took the small bundle of humanity in his arms, and with stately tread and mar- tial stalk walked up and down the aisle of the carat first to the amusement of the passengers. As the child be- came soothed and quieted under the dandling and cooing of the self-ap- pointed nurse, their amusement gave way to quiet joy and content, and when, in a short time, the infant, quiet- ly sleeping, was again confided to its mothers arms, the male passengers all shook hands with, and in subdued voices congratulated and thanked the benefactor of the car. Indeed one gen- tleman was with difficulty restrained from firing a feu de joie then and there in celebration. It was pointed out to him, however, that the explosion of his pistol would inevitably bring forth another explosion from the re- cently quieted child, and a second ap- plication of the tragedians soothing process might not be as successful as the first. This reasoning had its effect. The protagonist in this juvenile per- formance had in the meantime gone back to his seat and was quietly doz- ing. This is a trifling incident, perhaps, to make mention of, but life is a large bundle of little things, and it is just such happenings as this that keep us in touch with our fellow-creatures. From this bundle of little things I recall a humorous occurrence of a few years ago that may not seem without in- terest in showing the effect of the dis- cipline of actors, which is so essential a part of their every-day life, and the cu- rious fashion in which appreciation of it manifests itself in certain minds. It is my pleasure and great good fortune to have been associated for many years with a dramatic company in which discipline with a big D was our watchwords and almost our very being. We were, in fact, a sort of dramatic West Point. The figure is not strained, I think, for the company is a national institution, has a great commandant, several splendid pro- fessors, and many clever and promising cadets. Bien; the manager of our com- pany elected to openi.e., be the first 38 THE ACTOR. to playin the newly erected theatre in a certain town in the interior of Illinois. We played in this said town for two nights. It was a most delightful place rurally, but theatrically impossible for that company. And the hotel! Words fail me. Shocking cannot describe it. Indeed I have no adjective at my com- mand to do it justice. As the cele- brated comedian of the company and myself were sitting in the rotunda of the hotel, as they probably called the space before the desk, after our per- formance the first night, smoking and talking over the quaintness of our pres- ent conditions, we noticedwalking up and down before us at intervals a man, evidently a native of the town, and as evidently from his knowing looks toward us and his wreathed smiles, a spectator of our play of the evening. The celebrated comedian, alert as he always is to humorous accident, said that something would come of it in a minute, and it did. Presently the smil- ing native seated himself on the bench where we were, and, after combing his chin beard with his fingers several times, and clearing his throat in true bucolic fashion, said to my companion, I seen you act to-night. Ah, said the celebrated comedian, pleasantly, I hope you were edified. Raw! haw! laughed the native, as if appre- ciating a huge joke. I dunno about that, I thought it was putty good; and he added, you folks ought to stay here some time. I hear most of the re- served positions is bought up for to- morrow night; and continuing more confidentially, as he edged closer to my companion, I had a talk with the pro- prietor of the hall to - night, and we come to the conclusion that yours was the best trained troupe that had ever been here since Humpy-Dinky. It is needless to say that he referred to the well-known pantomime performance of Humpty-Dumpty, which some years before had been exhibited in the town. I leave the reader to imagine the stunning effect this innocent and naive criticism of our perfect discipline and form produced upon two of the players of the Com6die Fran~aise of America! But if the evidence of discipline pro- duced this effect, though quaintly ex- pressed in the mind of the provincial critic, the lack of it is often most convuls- ing to the disciplinarian. I remember seeing in St. Louis once, at a German theatre, a performance of the drama of William Tell. I was told by the manager of the theatre that the stage effects in the play were extremely fine, and that I was to wait until the scene where Tells splendid marksmanship was made apparent to see something that would astonish me. I did wait as pa- tiently as I could until that scene, and I was certainly astonished. The scene arrived where Tell is to shoot the apple from his sons devoted head. As I gathered from the subsequent occur- rence, the apple and Tells cross-bow were connected by an invisible wire, along which the arrow was to speed to its target. At the proper cue the arrow did speed half-way toward the apple and there stuck, to all appearancc, in mid-air! In vain did the doughty Tell shake his bow to joggle the arrow to its mark. The son of Tell looked very frightened and didnt know what was happening. The apple firmly fixed on his youthful cranium was bobbing about, the audience was laughing, and the laugh burst into a roar when one of Gesslers guards, looking painfully like a gentleman who might officiate on one of the Anheuser-Busch wagons during the day, took in the situation, and com- ing forward from his position at the side of young Tell, calmly gave the re- calcitrant arrow a smart rap with his spear, when it sped on its way and buried itself in the apple on the boys head. This is only matched in my recol- lection by a similar contretemps in a well-known though antiquated play called The Maid and the Magpie, in which the magpie, a property bird, of course, exercises its well-known instinct for the picking up of uncon- sidered trifles, and through its innocent misdoings works no end of mischief for the poor heroine. On this occasion the property-man, feeling that this was his opportunity for the effort of his life in mechanical effect, had arranged that the thieving (stuffed) bird should fly down to a table, seize the piece of silver, the THE ACTOR. 39 loss of which was to work such woe, and triumphantly fly away with it. Everything was perfectly arranged with a series of invisible wires, that had worked to entire satisfaction at re- hearsals, but on the night of the per- formance, which the property - man hoped should be the cornble of his ca- reer as a mechanicianalas for the un- certainty of things mundanewhat hor- rid mischance befell! At the proper time the wily magpie appeared in upper air, seemed very cunningly to look about for his quarry, and then make a dart for the article on the table. His down- ward swoop toward his prey was some- thing splendid, until he arrived within two or three feet of the table. Then he stopped with a suddenness that was inexplicable, even in a predatory bird who is up to all sorts of tricks; there he stuck, or perhaps, more properly, hovered, making vicious darts toward his prey, and as often recoiling with pangs of conscience, as it seemed, at the nefarious business. All this time curses not loud but deep could be heard issuing from the flies, where the enraged property - man was stationed, trying to work his great effect. After a few more savage dashes and qualmish recoils on the part of the baffled bird, the unravished article was seen to fly up from the table and attach itself to the beak of the magpie, who ignomin- iously made off with it backward into space, amid the well-earned laughter of the audience. I could only regret that a Barham was not there to sing a lay of the Mechanical Magpie. It must have eclipsed his Jackdaw of iRheims. Of course the actor must have his re- laxation and recreation, or he becomes the dull boy subjected to all work and no play. In diversions and amuse- ment different natures and tempera- ments take their pleasures in different ways. A certain celebrated comedian has his chiefest joy in the acquisition of first editions, rare tomes, and extra- illustrating; another, lately deceased, ran to bugs, as a friend of his put it, and at his death left one of the best entomological collections in the coun- try. Amateur farmingan expensive fad as we all knowseems to be a spe- cial weakness of some actors. As it is about as opposite to the nature of their own pursuit as anything can well be, it has the primal requisite for relaxation I suppose complete change. Droll but mendacious stories are told of a. certain faddist thus affected, who, it was said, was to be seen upon occasiona attired in ancient stage habilimenta that he had brought into use as farm- ing clothesCharles II., or bucket- top boots, a Richard III. arm-hole cloak, and a pair of huge Cromwellian gauntlet glovesploughing a field and rehearsing aloud a new part, to the ter- ror and dismay of the natives and his neighbors. But the object of this jibe said that it was a vile slander set afloat by a brother in art, a hideous urban creature, who knew only bricks and mortar and the dirty pavement of the town, and had no feeling for the classic life of the fields. Cor~1paratively few can indulge in the dear delight of picture - buying, but we may all look at the collections of others and can watch our painter friends at worka privilege that gives one a feeling of proprietary interest in the picture and makes a slight amend for the pangs of non-possession. The purely physical recreations riding, boxing, fencing, and other variations of athleticseach indulges as fancy dic- tates, of course; but some exercise of the nature of these is invaluable and necessary, if we regard the ancient mens sana axiom. Of course the actors hours are different from those of men in other callings, but although living as is sup- posed against hygienic laws, retiring late and rising late, breathing for many hours the physically impure air of the play-house, the actor eceteris paribus lives longer than most men of other occupations. This fact is due to the regularity of his life, a regularity he must observe, for if that be relaxed or disregarded he fails to fulfil the condi- tions he must have pledged himself to, and instead of doing his best as far as in him lies, he doesnt. Without trenching on the private and personal, there may be mentioned a few of the actors bores and per- sonal terrors; and every actor has them, be he great or obscure. The greater 40 THE ACTOR. the actor the greater the bore, is the oniy difference. One of the chiefest (and one to which I fancy everyone in public life of any kind is subject) is the begging letter, and always from some- one who has no claim whatsoever. It is usually delivered to the actor by hand, either at his home, if the brute can find the address, or at the stage- door of his theatre; and what actor is not familiar with the fat and dirty en- velope, bearing the engraved and allur- ing picture or device of one of the most prominent hotels, to the paper and writing-room of which the creature has access? It contains a rambling letter of four or six pages, the pream- ble of which from experience the read- er skips, and coming to Hecuba, finds, of course, that the writer wants money. Begs pardon for the liberty of ad- dressing him, etc., etc. ; circumstances compel him etc., etc. ; hoping for a favorable reply he will call tomorrow,~~ which he does. But be it at the house or at the stage-door that the visit is made, woe to the man who has not heeded the injunction, My son, early learn to say, No ! There are some, however, who, if they heed not the in- junction entirely, are not altogether without moral courage in the matter, and the brigand, following his letter, and calling on the apprised and alarmed one, is finally appeased (sometimes from his demand for the wherewithal to set himself up in business of some kind, or provision for his family of wife and multitudinous children), and sent away with a pair of discarded trousers or even a dust-laden tile, several seasons antiquated. But it must be a diplo- matist and genius who can effect this. It usually results in abstracting money from the victim; and if the hideous thing knows its business it will come to the stage - door of the theatre and waylay the victim as he arrives some night rather later than usual, when in the excitement of the moment perhaps he will be muleted in heavier damages than in quieter times he would accede to. There is also the quasi - respectable person, who calls at some unearthly hour in the morning (unearthly for the actor, that is) and gets the victim from his sleep by some ambiguous, but seem- ingly important, summons, and then wants to dispose for a mere trifle of a sword Edmund Kean wore in such a part, or a dagger, or chain once the property of some other illustrious one. This impostor, who has hoped to sur- prise the victim in his tent, is usually hurled from the gates with anathema; but others appear at intervals, to be hurled in turn. Another early and persistent caller is the lady canvasser who has been sent by some friend of the victim, with some kind of badly printed and shock- ingly illustrated dramatic work, that nobody would have in his library. He knows what that means, and accepts the only means of escape ; after prais- ing and admiring the book, to amelio- rate in a measure his brutality, and regretting that he cannot find a place for it in his library, he sends her on with strong encouragement of success to someone else, who will probably find about as much delight in the visit as he did. If these few glimpses have not, after all, shown the actor off the stage to be the curious creature that some in a vague way imagine him, it is because there is little of the extraordinary about him. He lives, moves, and has his be- ing much as other ordinary mortals, and when he puts off his tinselled robe he puts off, too, the character he assumed with it, and in donning the common garb becomes again the plain, honest citizen. There is little in the outward appearance of the actor to-day to dis- tinguish him from the every-day young man, save perhaps a somewhat more thoughtful air, and the occasional smooth-shaven face at a period of hir- sute fashion when mustaches prevaiL Types have disappeared; Crummles, Lenville, and Folair will always be im- mortal and amusing in fiction, and the Crushed Tragedian, long of hair and woful of countenance, still serves to express the ac-tor on the variety stage in knock-about sketches; but these humorously decorative objects in the theatric landscape have passed away. Yes, I forgotI have not mentioned that there are two or three mauvais sujets among us, a few incubuses; but DRAWN BY W. L. METCALF. VOL. XV.5 Behind the Curtainthe Peephole. ENGRAVED BY W, B. WITTE. what calling is without its empirics and hangers-on? Let us not think of or regard them. They have their lit- tle day of flutter and self-applause, and then puff they are vanished with other ephemera; but the actor the real thing keeps calmly on in pur- poseful fashion, undisturbed by this oft-recurrent buzz and flutter, as many gorgeous varieties of moth appear and disappear; for he is conscious of the worthiness of his aim and knows that he is a factor for good in modern prog- ress and development. In the study and preparation of a part what a myriad of sensations and emotions the actor goes through; what elation and depression, what exaltation and despair he experiences between the inception of a r6le and its delivery to his public! at the first reading of the play and his trying to see himself in the part he is cast for, or at the re-read- ing of the part when he has it in manu- script form. The emotion is only dif- ferent in degree, as the part may be a small one or a great one. After com- mitting it to memory (the very smallest portion of the study of a part) comes 42 i the real study of it, the shaping and composing it, making himself, his per- sonality, and perhaps his peculiarities~ if he have them, consonant with the role, and fitting himself into the part so that he shall be what the author de- signednow elaborating and then re- pressing and curtailing, accepting or rejecting mental suggestions, and mak- ing, from an adumbration, a perfect picture, in short going through all the travail of making a part. For, with all credit to the author who gives him the character, it is the actor who makes it animate. That is the real life of the actor away from the footlights,, where his emotions and sensibilities are brought into play. When the part he has struggled and fought with, cajoled and anathematized by turns, during the study of it, is pre- sented to his public, it is then complete and a finished thing with the rest of the play. But what days and nights has he had before that prerni~re! From the beginning of the study of a part (and the feeling is more tense the more im- portant that part may be) until th playing of it, the actor and the charac The Leading Ladys Dressing-room. DRAWN BY W. L. METCALF. A Recall. ENGRAVED BY C, ~. DELORME. 44 THE ACTOR. ter he is studying are never apart. It is always with him. It is his first thought on arising, it bathes with him, breakfasts with him, goes about with him during the day, obtrudes itself into the conversation when he is talk- ing with friends, is most manifest when his real relaxation comesbetween the end of his performance and retiring and finally goes to bed with him! Nor is it laid then, for horrid dreams abuse the curtained sleeper. I be- lieve it is almost universal in the dreams of actors about stage affairs that the very wrong thing is always happening, and it generally takes the form of lack of completeness of rai- ment; some most important vestment is always missing when their call comes for the stage. If it be a Roman tragedy the fleshings (the flesh-colored tights) are wanting. If it be an eigh- teenth century play the powdered wig is not to be found, or if a modern play, a coat or waistcoat, or some equally necessary garment, is undiscoverable and during the agony of search awa- kening comes, and with it the relief and realization that it is but a dream. Psy- chologists must explain the cause of this phenomenonwe have never been able to determine it! But just so the actor dreams of his new part. Another curious phase of the study of a part: after long and elaborately minute rehearsals, physically tiring and mentally wearying, during some mo- ments of his private practice and going over his r5le (trying different emphases and feeling for certain n uances that may better and improve it) the awful feeling conies to him suddenlywith- out warning or premonition, a bolt from the bluethat, after all his study and endeavor, his posings and utter- ances of many phrases in different keys and varied fashions, he is not right. And it comes upon him with greater force, if he happens at that moment to be before his mirror in his den ; then his hitherto complacent or confi- dent counterfeit presentment in the glass seems to say to him, Not a bit like it. It is an awful moment, and a frightful facer, only to be righted or forgc ~en for the time by flinging down the p ~rt, and, if it be in day-time, going out for a long and rapid walk, or, for choice, a gallop on a fresh and frolic- some horse, which sets the blood a tin- gling and makes one forget all else for the nioment. Or, if the awful convic- tion comes when he is studying at night, he must leave the den and go into another room, light a cigar, and read something else. After the walk or gal- lop or other diversion from work, the feeling of depression passes away, and again the study is renewed, to be fol- lowed by other keen transports of exal- tation and despair, until the study is completed, and the first night of the play is arrived, when the feeling is: cest ykit, Ive done my best, I must stand or fall by this. And if he falls on this particular occasion, after all his long study and thoughtful preparation; if a hardened public will have no more of him; if moments in the play, where he has hoped to move them to mirth or tears, as the situation served him, pass unnoticed, giving him that sinking of the heart and stomach that all actors must have known at times; if callous critics have praised him with faint damns, uttered to each other during the entre-actes, and dismissed him in the morning papers with the pleasant assurance to their readers that Mr. So-and-So was wholly inadequate in his r6le; or, if in a critique in a mi- nor paper, of which perhaps the base- ball editor has been sent to review the performance, the reader is informed that Mr. X didnt seem to know what he was trying to get through himself what should the subject of this public indifference, and, perhaps, just and elegant criticism, do? What he does do is to avoid the sight of men for a short period of moral and an- guished sack-cloth and ashes, and then emerge, tried by the fire, stronger than before, to have another try at getting there, if honest effort is to do it. And if he does not fall, but on the first night of his long dreaded and hoped for trial wins plaudits and recog- nition from his public, and a like meed of praise from his critics, in the elation of his success he has to remember that those are not the only people or opin- ions he will have to face; that the un- stinted praise of one public or town DRAWN BY W. L. METCALF. ENGRAVED BY T. SCHUSSLER. The Stage Entrance on a Rainy Night. 46 THE ACTOR. may be succeeded by moderated trans- ports in other places, even giving place to adverse feeling on the subject, and the voicing of it in expressions of belief in the superiority of some one hitherto disregarded by him as a possible rival. tirely consistent and natural, to another may appear unreal, strained, and over- or under-acted. I suppose this is to be expected in so huge an area, where conditions, socially and mentally if not morally, are so varied. They have their little day of flatter and self-applaurePage 42. Such is the diffei ence in audiences in ~o large a theatrical territory as ours; different districts and communities are affected and swayed by different por- tions of a play and its performance. And in the portrayal of a character, what to one audience may seeni en- Briefly, tben, the actor is as men in other liberal artistic professionspart student, part man of the worldbut student first he must be. In some the studious faculty is so pronounced and close, book-study so entirely engrossing, that they seldom come into touch with A the great world at all, and are to many in consequence dull boys to sport with; but they are sweet and kindly natures that it is a joy to commune with, and they are fountains of information for some of us; and we are glad for them, and somewhat envious of them too, in their superior knowledgeno as a iitres who are not always as studious as we might be. Certainly they are in marked contrast to the style of a flippant gentleman who put forth as his se- rious objection to the pursuit of acting that it broke in on his evenings so! or the youth, whose sole claim to notice is a wondrous and bewildering ward- robe, or an embarrassing success with the fair sex, that the paragrapher de- lights in chronicling. If self - sacrifice and a devotion to duty and discipline equal to that of the soldier count for anything in the moral make-up of a man, then certainly the act- or is entitled to one of the high places, for of this same devotion to duty in his calling is begot an excessive sense of his duty to his neighbor, and that is why he is ever ready to assist in any fashion the unfortunate or those in need of help. This in farewell. The actor, unless he be in nature perverted, must exhibit in his life the effect of his calling; a calling desirous of the same results as other arts the advan cement of the human mind thron gIl the ministration of beauty and truthan advancement out of which necessarily flows increased civilization and augmented happiness for the human race. And what more safe or splendid motto could there be for his calling than that utterance of Bacon, that all actors know and revere: 1 hold eiery man a debtor to his pro- fession; from the which as men of coarse do see/c to receive coantenanee and profit, so oaght they of daty to en- deavour thentselv.s by way of amends to be a help and ornament thereardo. 47 A Quiet Supper at The Players THE FIFER. PAINTED BY EDOUAJW MANET.* By PHliIP Gilbert Haineilon. IT is now a good many years since Manet died, prematurelyperhaps a dozen years (I do not remember the exact date of his death)yet it is certain that his influence is greater than it was during his lifetime, when, although he had some enthusiastic admirers, the world in general only laughed at him. My own recollection of his early strug- gles goes back to 1863, when he and Mr. Whistler exhibited, not exactly in the Salon itself, to which neither could gain admission then, but ~n the Salon des Befus~s, which was held in the same building and was generally accepted as a complete justification of the mild ex- clusiveness of the jury. Manet exhib- ited a big picture and two smaller ones. The big picture was entitled Le D& jeuner sur lherbe, and the subject of it was a grassy slope with trees near a little brook. On the grass, which was See Frontispiece. Manet. (From a photograph in the possession of his widow.)

THE FIFER. PAINTED BY EDOUAJW MANET.* By PHliIP Gilbert Haineilon. IT is now a good many years since Manet died, prematurelyperhaps a dozen years (I do not remember the exact date of his death)yet it is certain that his influence is greater than it was during his lifetime, when, although he had some enthusiastic admirers, the world in general only laughed at him. My own recollection of his early strug- gles goes back to 1863, when he and Mr. Whistler exhibited, not exactly in the Salon itself, to which neither could gain admission then, but ~n the Salon des Befus~s, which was held in the same building and was generally accepted as a complete justification of the mild ex- clusiveness of the jury. Manet exhib- ited a big picture and two smaller ones. The big picture was entitled Le D& jeuner sur lherbe, and the subject of it was a grassy slope with trees near a little brook. On the grass, which was See Frontispiece. Manet. (From a photograph in the possession of his widow.) THE PIPER. 49 very green indeed, sat two Frenchmen in modern costume, with the hat then called a wide - awake, and close to them a lady destitute of all clothing, while another almost but not quite destitute was coming out of the rivu- let. The picture seemed to me then a translation of a thought of Gior- gione into modern French, and not a pleasant translation, because certain juxtapositions are tolerable in poetic art where beautiful costume and color harmonize all things, and are not toler- able in modern matter-of-fact where there is neither beauty nor imagination to take us out of the common world. Manets attempt was no doubt permis- sible as an experiment in a studio, and it certainly did mark an intention, since then carried out resolutely enough by the new school, to extract art if possible out of the living world of the present, and to see whether the present could not be made as available for artistic purposes as the past. The picture, however, offended people in general as a sin against both taste and morals, while it was condemned for its crudeness by the criticism that exercised influence in those days. The opinion of the jury was plainly indicated by its exclusion, and two other pictures by the same artist were rejected along with it, namely, the Portrait of a Young Man in the Costume of a Majo, and the Portrait of Mademoiselle V in the Costume of an Espada. From that date people began to take an interest in Manet, and a few years later he had a determined little party in his favor, like the party of journalists and young artists that afterward in England sided with Mr. Whistler. It became understood that Manet was fighting a battle, not for himself only, but for some artistic principles that were defined by Zola in a pamphlet published in 1867. The reader will remember that year as the date of the second universal exhibition held in Paris. Manet had wished to exhibit there, but on second thoughts it oc- curred to him that he could never be fully represented, so he made his own appeal to the public by showing sepa- rately an ample collection of his works. Zolas pamphlet was kindly intended VOL. XV.6 to help the success of this exhibition. The future novelist thought that the painter had been hardly used by jour- nalists and misunderstood by the pub- lic. He, therefore, volunteered an ex- planation of the new principles, which were as follows: Manet (according to Zola) lost most of the time he spent as a pupil of Cou- ture, and being relieved finally from the incubus of another mans art, settled down to the pursuit of his special ob- ject, which was to see and translate nat- ure in his own way and according to the laws of his own organization, with- out remembering either the advice he had received from living masters or the example of the dead. Manet was not the first artist, nor is he likely to be the last, who has at- tempted to find originality by repre- senting nature as he saw it. In real- ity, however, no one ever sees anything artistically without the education of the eye, and as that education is given by other artists invariably, either by direct teaching or through their works, the pretension to any complete origi- nality is always vain. There is no complete independence for any of us. Manets art was partly derived from Spanish and partly from French real- ism, with a minor influence from Hol- land. This is said without reproach and without accusing Manet of anything like servile imitation. I fully believe in the honesty of his efforts to paint nature as he saw it, but thousands of others have tried to do the same, yet their works are full of reminiscences of pre- vious art. Another important point insisted upon by Zola was that Manet did not think of subjects otherwise than as pre- texts for artistic harmonies or oppo- sitions, and again, that he composed little, grouping his figures rather by chance; also, that he was never foolish enough to think, as so many have done, of putting ideas into painting. These renunciations of subject, com- position, and ideas are now accepted by the new school of painting and art criticism everywhere, and it also ac- cepts Manets doctrine on the positive side, which was the study of the mass or patch of color rather than the line, 50 THE FIFER. and the importance given to what are called values, that is, the relative de- grees of darkness in the patches of color as affected both by their own hue and by the light that falls upon them. The general reader cares little for the technicalities of the fine arts, and I fear that these considerations will seem to him rather tedious; but the influence of Manet has been very important and wholly technical, as sub- ject and ideas were both outside of his chosen scheme of work. The apparent rudeness and coarse- ness of some pictures by Manet, es- pecially the too famous ID6jeuner sur lherbe, gave people an impression that he must himself be a rough fellow. I remember meeting him and being struck by the refinement of his man- ners and the neatness and cleanliness of his dress. Though he was strongly opposed to the intrusion of intellectual ideas in the fine arts, he did not appear to be wanting in mental acumen, but had a sharp, keen look, rather restless and dissatisfied, as if seeking for some object as yet beyond his reach. His extreme admirers accept almost every- thing he did, but he himself was prob- ably often disappointed with his work, and though quite convinced of the soundness of his own principles, may have felt that it was very difficult to carry them triumphantly into practice. One of his strong convictions was that the color ought to be left fresh with- out tormenting the life out of it by dis- turbing it with the brush; but if it is not of very good quality when so left, the mere freshness and crispness of the touch are not, in themselves, a compen- sation. The plain truth is that while some of Manets work was strong in style and harmonious in coloring, a good deal of it was very crude, and this seems to have been due to his habit of improvisation. One of the best of his pictures is the very lively one of the little fifer, in the private collection of M. IDurand-Iluel, to whom I owe the opportunity for reproducing it. That work holds well together in all ways, as the vivacity and simplicity of the brush- work answer to the vivacity and sim- plicity of the subject, while the coloring is perfectly harmonious. The boys face is by no means handsome, and his uniform, very truthfully depicted, cannot be said to fit him very neatly; yet he wins his way to our regard, and the picture pleases us by an honest, straightforward mastery by no means common even now, when so many paint- ers are trying for the same qualities. We have seen that it was a part of the painters faith that subject ought to be avoided. De suj ctil nen faut pas is the orthodox doctrine of Manet and all his followers. The effect of it was sometimes to break up what might have been a subject. There is a fine picture by Manet called Le D6jeuner, this time not on the grass, but in a res- taurant, probably. To the right is a man at table at the end of his repast, to the left a servant, and in the middle a youth with his back to the table and leaning against it. In truth the young man is the subject of the picture so far as there is one, and the rest is only background, more or less interesting, but entirely disconnected from the prin- cipal figure. However, the work is well painted and the youth tells powerful- ly at a distance. Some of the Spanish subjects are among the best of the ar- tists works from the opportunities of- fered by the strong oppositions of color in the costumes, such as vigorous little patches of red or yellow and black, and ornaments never slavishly imitated, but lightly indicated sufficiently for pictu- resque effect. The picture mentioned by Zola as Manets masterpiece is the Olympia, which was purchased by his admirers for the gallery of the Luxembourg, where it now hangs. It represents a nude figure of a girl reclining and look- ing at the spectator, while a negress brings a large bouquet; and there is a black cat, afterward celebrated by the caricaturists. The artist here carried out, in his own straightforward way, a certain scheme of color, but did not sufficiently bear in mind the necessity for idealization in all paintings of the nude, so the consequence is that his figure looks somewhat ridiculous and even not altogether decent, though as a subject it is not worse in any way than many chosen by the old masters. Again, although the color scheme was THE FIFER. 51 in itself excellent, it is carried out somewhat crudely, so that the picture will not be seen to much advantage if it is ever admitted into the Louvre. There is the same crudeness in Manets picture of the Bon Bock (the Good Glass of Ale), which was exhibited as one of the Hundred Masterpieces in 1892. It was painted, however, with the most uncompromising truth of character. The straightforwardness that be- longed to Manet in all he did would have been very favorable to him in etching if he had overcome the techni- cal difficulties of that art, but he never did so to the degree which is necessary for certainty of method, so that he etched in a rude style, as if he did not care about technical qualities at all. A few of his plates, by a lucky chance, happen to be good in a simple way. The Boy with the Sword, the Olympia, and the Dead Taurca- dor are good, and so are the Read- er and the Infante ; but Manet made a bad etching from his picture of Christ with Angels ; and his Man- ano Campurbi is one of his worst plates. He sometimes combined linear etching with flat aquatint, after the manner of Goya, and with Goyas mod- erate degree of success. The Sailors Dream is one of his best plates in that kind. As Manet had. not patience to contend against the technical difficul- ties of etching, he ought to have rapid- ly produced many plates and selected a few of the most successful for ex- hibition; but he had not much criti- cal faculty and did not know when he failed. As the editor of SCIIIBNERS MAGA- ZINE asked me to treat of contemporary artists, and especially of those who have most influence to-day, it may seem strange that I should begin with one who has been dead now for many years. In truth, however, the influence of Manet was never so great as it is at the present moment. The modern dislike to subject, the objection to intellect in art, the hatred of literary ideas, the ~ desire for visible manual execution and for a comprehensive expression rather than the enumeration of petty details, all of them come from Manet. It was he who gave the example of shunning composition, of painting people and things in a downright way just as they are and in chance groupings; it was he who had the courage to leave imperfect work for the sake of its freshness rather than sacrifice the freshness to the kind of excellence that may be reached by more laborious finish. The doctrines now professed by the new criticism,~~ as it calls itself, were professed and acted upon by Manet and preached by Zola twenty-six years ago, and they never brought forth so much fruit as they are bringing forth to-day. Much of the work done under this inspiration, so far from being agreeable to the ~es- thetic sense, only strikes it like an out - rage; and certainly it would be difficult to imagine anything more hideous than some of the most self-confident per- formances of the new schooL Never- theless, in spite of all its faults, the school has a sort of barbaric vigor which has already proved destructive to the art which depended upon pretti- ness and upon the telling of interesting little stories. On the purely artistic side it seems to me that Zola made a mistake when he spoke of Manets work as especially analytic. On the contrary, it is synthetic and passes over minute details which are delightful to analytic minds, such as those of IRuskin and Meissonier. Finally, it is to be remem- bered, in extenuation of Manets imper- fections, that he had a hard battle to fight, and never had the tranquil enjoy- ment of beauty which belongs to the children of success. His life was full of contention, and it was a short life. He was far from being coarse or vulgar by nature, and he did not live long enough to work himself clear of his early technical aggressiveness, which made his art look ruder than it need have been, because he always felt him- self to be in opposition to the artistic orthodoxy of his time. He worked al- ways in a militant spirit, knowing him- self to be despised by the dominant ar- tists and an object of ridicule to the public, conditions most unfavorable to quiet progress in the study and cult of the beautiful. ON NE BADINE PAS AVEC LA MORT. By Arthur Sherburne Hardy. I. THE dew was full of sun that morn (0 I heard the doves in the hayricks coo!) As he crossed the meadows beyond the corn, Watching his falcon in the blue. How could he hear my song so far The song of the blood where the pulses are! Straight through the fields he came to me (0 I saw his soul as I saw the dew !), But I hid my joy that he might not see: I hid it deep within my breast, As the starling hides in the maize her nest. IL Back through the corn he turned again (0 little he cared where his falcon flew!), And my heart lay still in the hand of pain As in winters hand the rivers do. How could he hear its secret cry The cry of the dove when the summers die! Thrice in the maize he turned to me (0 I saw his soul as I saw the dew!); But I hid my pain that he might not see: I hid it deep as the grave is made, Where the heart that can ache no more is laid. III. Last night, where grows the river grass (0 the stream was dark though the moon was new I saw white Death and my lover pass Side by side as the troopers do. Give me, said Death, thy purse well filled, And thy mantle-clasp which the moonbeams gild Save the heart which beats for thy dear sake (0 I saw my heart as I saw the dew!) All life hath given is Deaths to take. Dear God! how can I love Thy day If Thou takest the heart which loves away!

ON NE BADINE PAS AVEC LA MORT. By Arthur Sherburne Hardy. I. THE dew was full of sun that morn (0 I heard the doves in the hayricks coo!) As he crossed the meadows beyond the corn, Watching his falcon in the blue. How could he hear my song so far The song of the blood where the pulses are! Straight through the fields he came to me (0 I saw his soul as I saw the dew !), But I hid my joy that he might not see: I hid it deep within my breast, As the starling hides in the maize her nest. IL Back through the corn he turned again (0 little he cared where his falcon flew!), And my heart lay still in the hand of pain As in winters hand the rivers do. How could he hear its secret cry The cry of the dove when the summers die! Thrice in the maize he turned to me (0 I saw his soul as I saw the dew!); But I hid my pain that he might not see: I hid it deep as the grave is made, Where the heart that can ache no more is laid. III. Last night, where grows the river grass (0 the stream was dark though the moon was new I saw white Death and my lover pass Side by side as the troopers do. Give me, said Death, thy purse well filled, And thy mantle-clasp which the moonbeams gild Save the heart which beats for thy dear sake (0 I saw my heart as I saw the dew!) All life hath given is Deaths to take. Dear God! how can I love Thy day If Thou takest the heart which loves away! By George W. Cable. L SUEZ. the State of Dixie, County of Clearwater, and therefore in the very heart of what was once the Southern Confederacy, lies that noted seat of govern- ment of one county and shipping point for three, Suez. The pamphlet of a certain land companya publication now out of print and rare, but a copy of which it has been my good fortune to secure mentions the battle of Turkey Creek as having been fought only a mile or so north of the town in the spring of 1864. It also strongly recommends to the attention of both capitalist and tourist the beautiful mountain scenery of Sandstone County, which adjoins Clearwater a few miles from Suez on the northeast, as Blackland does, much farther away, on the southwest. In the last year of our Civil War Suez was a basking town of twenty-five hundred souls, with rocky streets and breakneck sidewalks, its dwellings doz- ing most months of the twelve among roses and honeysuckles behind ancient- ly whitewashed, much-broken fences, and all the place wrapped in that wide sweetness of apple and acacia scents that comes from whole mobs of dog- fennel. The Pulaski City turnpike en- tered at the northwest corner and passed through to the court-house green with its hollow square of stores and law-officestwo sides of it blackened ruins of fire and war. Under the towns southeasterumost angle, between yellow banks and overhanging sycamores, the bright green waters of Turkey Creek, rambling round from the northwest, skipped down a gradual stairway of limestone ledges, and glided, alive with sunlight, into that true Swanee River, not of the maps, but which flows forever, far, far away, through the numbers of imperishable song. The rivers head of navigation was, and still is, at Suez. One of the most influential, and yet meekest, among the citizens in en not in the armywhose habit it was to visit Suez by way of the Sandstone County road, was Judge Powhatan March, of Widewood. In years he was about fifty. He was under the medi- um stature, with a gentle and intellec- tual face, whose antique dignity was only less attractive than his rich, quiet voice. His son Johnhe had no other child was a fat-cheeked boy in his eighth year, oftenest seen on horseback, sitting fast asleep with his hands clutched in the folds of the Judges coat and his short legs and browned feet spread wide behind the saddle. It was hard strad- dling, but it was good company. One bright noon about the close of May, when the cotton blooms were opening and the corusilk was turning pink; when from one hot pool to another the kildee fluttered and ran, and around their edges arcs of white and yellow butterflies sat and sipped and fanned themselves like human but- terflies at a seaside, Judge Marchwith JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER.

By George W. Cable. L SUEZ. the State of Dixie, County of Clearwater, and therefore in the very heart of what was once the Southern Confederacy, lies that noted seat of govern- ment of one county and shipping point for three, Suez. The pamphlet of a certain land companya publication now out of print and rare, but a copy of which it has been my good fortune to secure mentions the battle of Turkey Creek as having been fought only a mile or so north of the town in the spring of 1864. It also strongly recommends to the attention of both capitalist and tourist the beautiful mountain scenery of Sandstone County, which adjoins Clearwater a few miles from Suez on the northeast, as Blackland does, much farther away, on the southwest. In the last year of our Civil War Suez was a basking town of twenty-five hundred souls, with rocky streets and breakneck sidewalks, its dwellings doz- ing most months of the twelve among roses and honeysuckles behind ancient- ly whitewashed, much-broken fences, and all the place wrapped in that wide sweetness of apple and acacia scents that comes from whole mobs of dog- fennel. The Pulaski City turnpike en- tered at the northwest corner and passed through to the court-house green with its hollow square of stores and law-officestwo sides of it blackened ruins of fire and war. Under the towns southeasterumost angle, between yellow banks and overhanging sycamores, the bright green waters of Turkey Creek, rambling round from the northwest, skipped down a gradual stairway of limestone ledges, and glided, alive with sunlight, into that true Swanee River, not of the maps, but which flows forever, far, far away, through the numbers of imperishable song. The rivers head of navigation was, and still is, at Suez. One of the most influential, and yet meekest, among the citizens in en not in the armywhose habit it was to visit Suez by way of the Sandstone County road, was Judge Powhatan March, of Widewood. In years he was about fifty. He was under the medi- um stature, with a gentle and intellec- tual face, whose antique dignity was only less attractive than his rich, quiet voice. His son Johnhe had no other child was a fat-cheeked boy in his eighth year, oftenest seen on horseback, sitting fast asleep with his hands clutched in the folds of the Judges coat and his short legs and browned feet spread wide behind the saddle. It was hard strad- dling, but it was good company. One bright noon about the close of May, when the cotton blooms were opening and the corusilk was turning pink; when from one hot pool to another the kildee fluttered and ran, and around their edges arcs of white and yellow butterflies sat and sipped and fanned themselves like human but- terflies at a seaside, Judge Marchwith JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 54 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. John in his accustomed place, head- quarters behind the saddle turned into the sweltering shade of a tree in the edge of town to gossip with an ac- quaintance on the price of cotton, the health of Suez and the last news from Washington no longer from Rich- mond, alas! Why, son! he exclaimed, as by and by he lifted the child down before a hardware, dry-goods, drug, and mu- sic store, whats been a-troublin you? You a-got tear marks on yo face ! But he pressed the question in vain. Gimme yo hankecher, son, an let me wipe em off. But Johns pockets were insolvent as to handkerchiefs, and the Judge found his own no better supplied. So they changed the subject and the son did not have to confess that those dusty rivulet beds, one on either cheek, were there from aching fatigue of a position he would rather have perished in than sur- render. This store was the only one in Suez that had been neither sacked nor burned. In its drug department there had always been kept on sale a single unreplenished, undiminished shelf of books. Most of them were standard English works that took no notice of such trifles as children. But one was an exception, and this world-renowned volume, though entirely unillustrated, had charmed the eyes of Judge March ever since he had been a father. Year after year had increased his patient impatience for the day when his son should be old enough to know that books fame. Then what joy to see delight dance in his brave young eyes upon that volumes emergence from some innocent concealment a gift from his father! Thus far John did not know his a b cs. But education is older than alphabets, and for three years now he had been his fathers constant, almost confidential, companion. Why might not such a book as this, even now, be made a happy lure into the great realm of letters? Seeing the book again to-day, reflecting that the price of cot- ton was likely to go yet higher, and touched by the childs unexplained tears, Judge March induced him to go from his side a moment with the store s one clerkinto the lump -sugar section and bought the volume. II. TO A GOOD BOY. IN due time the Judge and his son started home. The suns rays, though still hot, slant- ed much as the two rose into oak wood- lands to the right of the pike and be- yond it. Here the air was cool and light. As they ascended higher and oaks gave place to chestnut and moun- tain - birch, wide views opened around and far beneath. In the south spread the green fields and red fallows of Clear- water, bathed in the sheen of the linger- ing sun. Miles away two white points were the spires of Suez. The Judge drew rein and gazed on five battle-fields at once. Ah, son, the kingdom of romance is at hand. Its always at hand when its within us. Ill be glad when you can understand that, son. His eyes came round at last to the most western quarter of the landscape and rested on one part where only a spray had dashed when wars fiery del- uge rolled down this valley. Son, if there want such a sort o mist o sun- shine between, I could show you Rose- mont College over yondeh. Youll be goin there in a few years now. Thatll be fine, wont it, son? A small forehead smote his back vig- orously, not for yea, but for slumber. Drowsy, son? asked the Judge, adding a backward caress as he moved on again. I didnt talk to you enough, did I? But I was thinkin about you, right along. After a silence he stopped again. Awake now, son? He reached back and touched the solid little head. See this streak o black land where the rains run down the road? Well, that means silveh, an its ow lan. They started once more. It may not mean much, but we neednt care, when what doesnt mean silveh means dead loads of other things. Make haste an grow, son; yo peerless motheh and I are only waitin. He ceased. In the JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 55 small of his back the growing pressure of a diminutive bad hat told the con- dition of his hidden audience. It lifted A aoain. Evomind, son, I can talk to you just as well asleep. But I can tell you some- pm thatll keep you awake. I was savin it till wed get home to yo dear motheh, but yo ti-ud an I dont think of any- thing else anthe fact is, Im bringing home a present faw you. He looked behind till his eyes met a brighter pair. What you reckon youve been sittn on in one of them saddle pockets all the way fum Suez U John smiled, laid his cheek to his fathers back and whispered, A kittn. Why, no, son; its somepm power. ful nice, butwell, you might know it want a kittn by my lettn you sit on it so long. Id be proud faw you to have a kittn, but, you know, cats dont suit yo dear mothehs high strung natue. You couldnt be happy with anything that was a constant tawment to her, could you? The head lying against the ques- tioners back nodded an eager yes! Oh, you think you might, son, but I jes know you couldnt. Now, what Ive got faw you is ever so much nicern a kittn. You see, you a-growiu so fast youll soon not care faw kittns; youll care for what Ive got you. But dont ask what it is, faw Id hate not to tell you, and I want yo dear motheh to be with us when you find it out. It was fairly twilight when their horse neighed his pleasure that his crib was near. Presently they dismounted in a place full of stumps and weeds, where a grove had been till Hallidays brigade had camped there. Beyond a paling ~fence and a sandy, careworn garden of altheas and dwarf-box, stood broadside to them a very plain, two- story house of uncoursed gray rubble, whose open door sent forth no welcom- ing gleam. Its windows, too, save one softly reddened by a remote lamp, re- flected only the darkling sky. This r was their home, called by every moun- taineer neighbor a plumb palace. __ As they passed in, the slim form of Mrs. March entered at the rear door of the short hall and came slowly through the gloom. John sprang, and despite her word and gesture of nervous dis- relish, clutched, and smote his face in- to, her pliant crinoline. The husband kissed her forehead, and, as she stag- gered before the childs energy, said: Be gentle, son. He took a hand of each. I hope youll overlook a little wildness in us this evening, my dear. They turned into a front room. I wonder he restrains himself so well, when he knows Ive brought him a pres- entnot expensive, my deah, I assho you, nor anything you can possible dis- approve; only a B-doubleO-K, in fact. Still, son, you ought always to remem- ber yo dear mothers apt to be ti-nd. Mrs. March sank into the best rock- ing-chair and, while her son kissed her diligently, said to her husband, with a smile of sad reproach: John can never know a womans fa- tigue. No, Daphne, deah, an thats what I try to teach him. Yes, Powhatan, but theres a differ- ence between teaching and terrifying. Oh! Oh! I was fah fum intendn to be harsh. Ala! Judge March, you little real- ize how harsh your words sometimes are. She showed the back of her head, although John plucked her sleeves with vehement whispers. What is it, child U Her irritation turned to mild remon- strance. You shouldnt interrupt your father, no matter how long you have to wait. Oh, Id finished, my deah, cried the Judge, beaming upon wife and son. And now, he gathered up the saddle- bags, now faw the present! John leapedhis mother cringed. Oh, Judge Marchbefore supper? Why, of cose not, my love, if you Ala, Powhatan, please! Please dont say if I. The speaker smiled lovingly I dont deserve such a rebuke! She rose. Why, my deala! No, I was not thinking of I, but of others. Theres the tea-bell. Servants have rights, Powhatan, and we shouldnt increase their burdens by heartless de- lays. That may not be the law, Judge March, but its the gospeL 56 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. Oh, I quite agree with you, Daphne, deah! But the father could not help seeing the childs tearful eyes and quiv- ering mouth. Ill tell you, mother, sonTheres no need faw anybody to be kep waitin. Well go to suppeh, but the gift shall grace the feast! He combed one soft hand through his long hair. John danced and gave a triple nod. Mrs. Marchs fatigue increased. Please yourself, she said. John and I can always make your pleasure ours. Only, I hope hell not inherit a frivolous impatience. Daphne, I The Judge made a gesture of sad capitulation. Oh, Judge March, its too late to draw back now. That were cruel ! John clambered into his high chair said grace in a pretty rhyme of his mothers productionshe was a poet- essand ended with: Amen, double-O-K. I wish double- 0-K would mean firecrackers; fire- crackers and cinnamon candy! He patted his wrists together and glanced triumphantly upon the frowsy, barefoot- ed waitress while Mrs. March poured the coffee. The Judges wife, at thirty-two, was still fair. Her face was thin, but her languorous eyes were expressive and her mouth delicate. A certain shadow about its corners may have meant rigid- ity of will or only a habit of introspec- tion, but it was always there. She passed her husbands coffee, and the hungry child, though still all eyes, was taking his first gulp of milk, when over the top of his mug he saw his father reach stealthily down to his sad- dle-bags and straighten again. Son! Go on with yo suppeh, son. Un- der the table the paper was coming off of something. John filled both cheeks dutifully, but kept them so, unchanged, while the present came forth. Then he looked confused and turned to his mother. Her eyes were on her hus- band in deep dejection, as her hand rose to receive the book from the ser- vant. She took it, read the title, and moaned: Oh! Judge March, what is your child to do with Lord Chesterfields Letters to his Son? John waited only for her pitying glance. Then the tears burst from his eyes and the bread and milk from his mouth, and he cried with a great and continuous voice, I dont like pres- ents! Iwanttogotobed! Even when the waitress got him there his mother could not quiet him. She demanded explanations and he could not explain, for by that time he had persuaded himself he was crying be- cause his mother was not happy. But he hushed when the Judge, sinking down upon the bedside, said, as the de- spairing wife left the room, Im sorry Ive disappointed you so powerful, son. I know just how you feel I made he glanced round to be sure she was gone just as bad a mistake one time, trying to make a present to myself. The child lay quite still, vaguely con- sidering whether this was any good reason why he should stop crying. But evomind, son, the vey next time we go to town well buy some cin- namon candy. The sons eyes met the fathers in a smile of love, the lids declined, the lashes folded, and his spirit circled softly down into the fathomless under- heaven of dreamless sleep. ilL TWO rRIENDs. IT was nearly four oclock of a day in early June. The sun shone excep- tionally hot on the meagre waters of Turkey Creek, where it warmed its sin- uous length through the middle of its wide battle-field. The turnpike, com- ing northward from Suez, emerged, white, dusty, and badly broken, on the southern border of this waste and crossed the creek at right angles. Eastward, westward, the prospect wid- ened away in soft heavings of fallow half ruined by rains. The whole land- scape seemed bruised and torn, its beauty not gone, but ravished. A dis- tant spot of yellow was wheat, a yet farther one may have been rye. Off on JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 57 the right a thin green mantle that oniy half clothed the red shoulder of a rise along the eastern sky was cotton, the sometime royal claimant, unsceptred, but still potent and full of beauty. About the embers of a burned dwell- ing, elder, love-pop, and other wild things spread themselves in rank com- placency, strange bed - fellows adver- sity had thrust in upon the frightened sweet-Betsy, phlox and jonquils of the ruined garden. Here the ground was gay with wild roses, and yonder blue, pink, white, and purple with expanses of larkspur. A few steps to the left of the pike near the woods strong shade, a beau- tiful brown horse in gray and yel- low trappings suddenly lifted his head from the clover and gazed abroad. He knows theres been fighting here, said a sturdy voice from the thicket of ripe blackberries behind; he sort o smells it. Reckon he hears something, re- sponded a younger voice farther from the road. Maybe its Cneliuss yodle; hes been listening for it for a solid week. Hes got a good right to, came the first voice again; worthless as that boy is, nobody ever took better care of a horse. I wish I had just about two dozen of his beat biscuit right now. He didnt have his equal in camp for beat biscuit. When sober, suggested the young- er speaker, in that melodious Southern drawl so effective in dry satire; but the older voice did not laugh. One does not like to have anothers satire pointed even at ones nigger. The senior presently resumed a nar- rative made timely by the two having just come through the town. You must remember I inherited no means and didnt get my education without a long, hard fight. A thorough clerical educations no small thing to get. Couldnt the church help you? OhyesI, ehI did have church aid, but Well, then I was three 4 years a circuit rider and then I preached four years here in Suez. And then I married. Folks laugh about preachers always marrying fortunes it was a mighty small fortune Rose Montgom ery brought me! But she was Rose Montgomery, and I got her when no other man had the courage to ask for her. You know an ancestor of hers founded Suez. Thats how it got its name. His name was Ezra and hers was Susan, dont you see? I think I make it out, drawled the listener. But she didnt any more have a fortune than I did. She and her moth- er, who died about a year after, were living here in town just on the wages of three or four hired-out slaves, and The younger voice interrupted with a question indolently drawn out: Was she as beautiful in those days as they say? Why, allowing for some natural ex- aggeration, yes. You built Rosemont about the time her mother died, didnt you? Yes, about three years before the war broke out. It was the only piece of land she had left; too small for a plantation but just the thing for a col- lege. It is neatly named, pursued the questioner; who did it? ~ half soliloquized the narrator, wrapped in the solitude of his own originality. He moved into view, a large man of forty, unmilitary, despite his good gray broadcloth and wealth of gold braid, though of commanding and most com- fortable mien. His upright coat-col- lar, too much agape, showed a clerical white cravat. His right arm was in a sling. He began to pick his way out of the brambles, dusting himself with a fine handkerchief. The horse came to meet him. At the same time his young com- panion stepped upon a fallen tree, and stood to gaze, large - eyed, like the horse, across the sun - bathed scene. He seemed scant nineteen. His gray shirt was buttoned with locust thorns, his cotton-woollen jacket was caught under an old cartridge belt, his ragged trousers were thrust into bursted boots, and he was thickly powdered with white and yellow dust. His eyes swept slow- ly over the battle-ground to some low, wooded hills that rose beyond it against the pale northwestern sky. 58 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. Major, said he. The Major was busy lifting himself carefully into the saddle and checking his horses eagerness to be off. But the youth still gazed and said again, Isnt that it? What? Rosemont? It is! cried the officer, standing in his stirrups and smiling fondly at a point where, some three miles away by the line of sight, a dark roof crowned by a white-railed look-out peeped over the tree-tops. Its iRosemont my own iRosemont! The views been opened by cutting the wood~off that hill this side of it. Come! Soon a wreath of turnpike dust near the broken culvert over Turkey Creek showed the good speed the travellers made. The ill - shod youth and deli- cately shod horse trudged side by side through the furnace heat of sunshine. So intolerable were its rays that when an old reticule of fawn-skin with bright steel chains and mountings, well-known receptacle of the Maj ors private papers and stationery, dropped from its fasten- ings at the back of the saddle and the dismounted soldier stooped to pick it up, the horseman said, Dont stop; let it go; its empty. I burned everything in it the night of the surrender, even my wifes letters, dont you know? Yes, said the youth, trying to open it, I remember. Still, Ill take its parole before I turn it loose. That part doesnt open, said the rider, smiling, its only make-believe. Here, press in and draw down at the same time. There! nothing but my card that I pasted in the day I found the thing in some old papers I was look- ing over. I reckon it was my wifes grandmothers. Oh, yes, fasten it on again, though like as not I will give it away to Barb as soon as I get home. Its my way And the Reverend John Wesley Gar- net, A.M., smiled at himself sell-loving- ly for being so unselfish about reticules. You need two thumbs to tie those leather strings, Jeff-Jack. Jeff - Jack had lost one, more than a year before, in a murderous onslaught where the Major and he had saved each others lives, turn about, in almost the same moment. But the knot was tied, and they started on. Speakin o Barb, some of the dark- ies told her if she didnt stop chasing squirls up the campus trees and crying when they put shoes on her feet to take her to church, shed be turned into a boy. What d you reckon she said? She and JohannaJohannas her only playmate, you knowdanced for joy; and Barb says, says she, An den kin I doe in swimmin? Mind you, shes only five years old! The Majors laugh came abundantly. Mind you, shes only five! The plodding youth whiffed gayly at the heat, switched off his bad cotton hat, and glanced around upon the scars of war. He was about to speak lightly; but as he looked upon the red wash- outs in the forsaken fields, and the dried sloughs in and beside the high- way, snaggy with broken fence - rails and their margins blackened by team- sters night-fires, he fell to brooding on the impoverishment of eleven States, and on the hundreds of thousands of men and women sitting in the ashes of their desolated hopes and the lingering fear of unspeakable humiliations. Only that morning had these two comrades seen for the first time the proclamation of amnesty and pardon with which the president of the triumphant republic ushered into a second birth the States of the conquered banner. Major, said the young man, lifting his head, you must open Rosemont again. Oh, I dont knoi~, Jeff-Jack. Its mighty dark for us all ahead. The Ma- jor sighed with the air of being himself a large part of the fallen Confederacy. Law, Major, weve got stuff enough left to make a country of yet! If theyll let us, Jeff-Jack. If theyll only let us; but will they? Why, yes. Theyve shown their hand. You mean in this proclamation? Yes, sir. Major, we-uns can take that trick. The two friends, so apart in years, exchanged a confidential smile. Can we? asked the senior. Cant we? The young soldier walked on for several steps before he * JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 59 added, musingly, and with a cynical smile, Ive got neither land, money, nor education, but Ill help you put 4 Rosemont on her feet againjust to sort o open the game. The Major gathered himself, exalted- ly. Jeff-Jack, if you will, Ill pledge you, here, that Hosemont shall make your interest her watchword so long as her interests are mine. The patriot turned his eyes to show Jeff-Jack their moisture. The young mans smile went down at the corners, satirically, as he said, Thats all right, and they trudged on through the white dust and heat, look- ing at something in front of them. Iv. THE JUDGES 50N MAKES TWO LIFE-TIME A~- QUAINTANCES, AND IS OFFERED A THIRD. THEY had been ascending a long slope and were just reaching its crest when the Major exclaimed, under his voice, Well, Ill be hanged! Before them stood three rusty mules attached to a half load of corn in the shuck, surmounted by a coop of pant- ing chickens. The wheels of the wagon were heavy with the dried mud of the Sandstone County road. The object of the Majors contempt was a smallish mulatto, who was mounting to the sad- dle of the off-wheel mule. He had been mending the rotten harness and did not see the two soldiers until he lifted again his long rein of cotton plough- line. The word to go died on his lips. Why, Judge March! Major Gar- net pressed forward to where, at the teams left, the owner of these chattels sat on his ill-conditioned horse. President Garnet! I hope yo well, seh? Aw at least, noticing the lame arm, I hope yo mendin. Thank you, Brother March, Im peartnin, as they say. The Major smiled broadly until his eye fell again upon the mulatto. The Judge saw him stiffen. ~ Cnelius only got back Sadday, he said. The mulatto crouched in his sad- dle and grinned down upon his mule. He told me yo wound compelled slow travel, seh; yes, seh. Perhaps I ought to apologize faw hirin him, seh, but it was only pending yo return, an subjec to yo approval, seh. You have it, Brother March, said Major Garnet suavely, but he flashed a glance at the teamster that stopped his grin, though he only said, Howdy, Cor- nelius. Brother March, let me make you acquainted with one of our boys. You remember Squire IRavenel, of Flatrock? This is the only son the wars left him. Adjutant, this is Judge March of Wide- wood, the famous Widewood tract. Jeff-Jack was my adjutant, Brother March, for a good while, though with- out the commission. The Judge extended a beautiful brown hand; the ragged youth grasped it with courtly defereD cc. The two horses had been arrogantly nosing each others muzzles, and now the Judges began to work his hinder end around as if for action. Whereupon: Why, looke here, Brother March, whats this at the back of your saddle ? The Judge smiled and laid one hand behind him. Thats my JohnAsleep, son ?He generally is when hes back there, and hes seldom anywheres else. Drive on, Cnelius, Ill catch you. As the wagon left them the child opened his wide eyes on Jeff-Jack, and Major Garnet said: He favors his mother, Brother Marchthough I havent seen I de- clare its a shame the way we let our Southern baronial sort o life make us such strangerswhy, I havent seen Sister March since our big union camp meeting at Chalybeate Springs in 58. Sonnie-boy, you aint listening, are you? The child still stared at Jeff- Jack. Mighty handsome boy, Brother Marchstuff for a good soldiergot a little sweetheart at my house for you sonnie-boy! Bosemont College and Widewood lands wouldnt go bad to- gether, Brother March, ha, ha, ha! Your son has his mothers favor, but with something of yours, too, sir. Judge March stroked the tiny, bare foot. Im proud to hope hell favor his mother, seh, in talents. Youve seen her last poem: Slaves to ow own slavesNeveh! signed as usual, Daph- ne Dalrymple? - Dalrymples one of 60 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. her family names. She uses it to avoid publicity. The Pulaski City Clarion reprints her poems and calls her sweet- est of Southland songsters. Major Garnet, I wept when I read it! Its the finest thing she has ever written! Ala! Brother March, the Major had seen the poem, but had not read it, Sister March will never surpass those lines of hers on, lets see; they begin Oh! dear me, I know them as well as I know my horseHow does that I know what you mean, seh. You mean the ballad of Jack Jones! Ho! Sonthrons, hark how one brave lad Three Yankee standards Captured! cried the Major. Thats it; why, my sakes! Hold on, Jeff- Jack, Ill be with you in just a minute. Why, I know it aswhy, it rhymes with cohorts enraptured! I why, of course !Ah! Jeff-Jack it was hard on you that the despatches got your name so twisted. Its a plumb shame, as they say. The Majors laugh grew rustic as he glanced from Jeff- Jack, red with resentment, to Judge March, lifted half out of his seat with emotion, and thence to the child, still gazing on the young hero of many bat- tles and one ballad. Well, thats all over; we can only hurry along home now, and Ah! President Garnet, is it all over, seh? Is it, Mr. Jones? Cant say, replied Jeff-Jack, with his down-drawn smile, and the two pairs went their opposite ways. As the Judge loped down the hot turnpike after his distant wagon, his son turned for one more gaze on the young hero, his hero henceforth, and felt the blood rush from every vein to his heart and back again as Mr. Ravenel at the last moment looked round and waved him farewell. Later he recalled Major Garnets offer of his daughter, but: I shall never marry, said John to himself. V. THE MASTERs HOME-cOMING. THE Garnet estate was far from ba- ronial in its extent. Bosemonts whole area was scarcely sixty acres, a third of which was wild grove close about three sides of the dwelling. The house was of brick, large, with many rooms in two tall stories above a basement. At the middle of the north front was a square Greek porch with wide steps spreading to the ground. A hall ex- tended through and let out upon a rear veranda that spanned the whole breadth of the house. Here two or three wooden pegs jutted from the wall, on which to hang a saddle, bridle, or gourd, and from one of which always dangled a small cowhide whip. Barbara and Johanna, hand in handJohanna was eleven and very blackoften looked on this object with whispering awe, though neither had ever known it put to fiercer use than to drive chickens out of the hall. Down in the yard, across to the left, was the kitchen. And lastly, there was that railed platform on the hip-roof, whence one could see, in the northeast, over the tops of the grove, the hills and then the mountains; in the southeast the far edge of Turkey Creek battle-ground; and in the west, the great setting sun, often, from this point, commended to Barbara as going to bed quietly and before dark. The child did not remember the father. Once or twice during the war when otherwise he might have come home on furlough, the enemy had inter- vened. Yet she held no enthusiastic unbelief in his personal reality, and prayed for him night and morning: that God would bless him and keep him from being naughty No, that aint it an keep him fom beinno, dont tell me !and ast him why he dont come see what a sweet mom-a Im dot! People were never quite done marvel- ling that even Garnet should have won the mistress of this inheritance, whom no one else had ever dared to woo. Her hair was so dark you might have called it blackher eyes were as blue as June, and all the elements of her outward beauty were but the various testimonies of a noble mind. She had been very willing for Rosemont to be founded here. There was a belief in her family that the original patenteehe that had once owned the whole site of Suez and morehad really from the first intended this spot for a college site, and when JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 61 Garnet proposed that with his savings they build and open upon it a male acad- emy of which he should be principal, she consented with an alacrity which his vanity never ceased to resent, since it involved his leaving the pulpit. For Principal Garnet was very proud of his moral character. On the same afternoon in which John March first saw the Major and Jeff-Jack, Barbara and Johanna were down by the spring - house at play. This structure stood a good two hundred yards from the dwelling, where a brook crossed the road. Three wooded slopes ran down to it and beneath the leafy arches of a hundred green shadows that only at noon were flecked with sunlight, the water glassed and crinkled scarce ankle deep over an unbroken floor of naked rock. The pair were wading, Barbara in the road, Johanna at its edge, when sud- denly Barbara was aware of strange voices, and looking up, was fastened to her footing by the sight of two travel- lers just at hand. One was on horse- back; the other, a youth, trod the stepping stones, ragged, dusty, but be- wilderingly handsome. Johanna, too, heard, came, and then stood like Bar- bara, awe-stricken and rooted in the water. The next moment there was a whirl, a bound, a splashand Barbara was alone. Johanna, with three leaping strides, was out of the water, across the fence and scampering over ledges and loose stones toward the house, mad with the joy of her news: Mahse John Wesley! Mahse John Wesley! up the front steps, into the great porch and through the hall Mahse John Wesley! Mahse John Wesley! Dc waugh done done! Dc waugh ove dis time fo sho! Glory! Glory! ~ down the back steps, into the kitchen Mahse John Wesley! out again and off to the stables Mahse John Wesley! While old Virginia ran from the kitchen to her cabin rubbing the flour from her arms and crying, Tun out! tun out, you ~ laazy black niggers! Mahse John Wes- ley Gyarnet a-comm up de road! Barbara did not stir. She felt the soldiers firm hands under her arms, and her own form, straightened and rigid, rising to the glad lips of the dis- abled stranger who bent from the sad- dle; but she kept her eyes on the earth. With her dripping toes stiffened down- ward and the youth clasping her tight- ly, they moved toward the house. In the grove gate the horseman galloped ahead; but Barbara did not once look up until at the porch-steps she saw yel- low Willis, the lame ploughman, smiling and limping forward round the corner of the house; Trudie, the house gi4, trying to pass him by; Johanna wildly dancing; Aunt Virginia, her hands up, calling to heaven from the red cavern of her mouth ; Uncle Leviticus, her husband, Corneliuss step-father, hold- ing the pawing steed; gladness on ev- ery face, and the mistress of Hosemont drawing from the horsemans one good arm to welcome her ragged guest. Barbara gazed on the bareheaded men and courtesying women grasping the hand of their stately master. Howdy, Mahse John Wesley. Wel- come home, sah. Yass, sah!~ Howdy, Mahse John Wesley. Yass, sah; dass so, sot free, but niggehs yit, te-he !an Hosemont niggehs yit! Chorus, Dass so! and much laugh- ter. Howdy, Mahse John Wesley. Miss Rose happy now, an whensomever she happy, us happy. Yass, sah. Dc good Lawd be praise! Now is de waugh over an finish an ended an gone! Chorus, Pra-aise Gawd! The master replied. He was majesti- cally kind. He commended their ex- ceptional good sense and prophesied a reign of humble trust and magnani- mous protection. But I see youre all he smiled a gracious irony anxious to get back to work. They laughed, pushed and smote one another, and went, while he mounted the stairs; they, strangers to the suffer- ings of his mind, and he as ignorant as many a far vaster autocrat of the pro- found failure of his words to satisfy the applauding people he left below him. In the hall Jeff-Jack let Barbara down. Thump-thump-thumpshe ran to find Johanna. A fear and a hope quite filled her with their strife, the mortifying fear that at the brook Mr. IRavenel had ob- servedand the reinspiring hope that 62 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. he had failed to observe that she was without shoes! She remained away for some time, and came back shyly in softly squeaking leather. As he took her on his knee she asked, carelessly: Did you ever notice Im dot socks on to-day? and when he cried No! and stroked them, she silently ap- plauded her own tact. Virginia and her mistress decided that the supper would have to be totally re- consideredreconstructed. Jeff - Jack and Barbara, the reticule on her arm, walked in the grove where the trees were few. The flat outcroppings of gray and yellow rocks made grotesque figures in the grass, and up from among the cedar sprouts turtle-doves sprang with that peculiar music of their wings, flew into distant coverts, and from one such to another tenderly complained of loves alarms and separations. When Barbara asked her escort where his home was, he said it was going to be in Suez, and on cross-examination ex- plained that Flatrock was only a small plantation where his sister lived and took care of his father, who was old and sick. He seemed to Barbara to be very easily amused, even laughing at some things she said which she did not in- tend for jokes at alL But since he laughed she laughed too, though with more reserve. They picked wild flow- ers. He gave her forget-me-nots. They did not bring their raging hun- ger into the house again until the large tea-bell rang in the porch, and the air was rife with the fragrance of Aunt Virginias bounty: fried ham, fried eggs, fried chicken, strong coffee, and hot biscuitsof fresh Yankee flour from Suez. No wine, and no tonic be- fore sitting down. In the pulpit and out of it Garnet had ever been an ar- dent advocate of total abstinence. He never, even in his own case, set aside its rigors except when chilled or fa- tigued, and always then took ample care not to let his action, or any sub- sequent confession, be a temptation in the eyes of others who might be weak- er than he. Barbara sat opposite Jeff-Jack. What of that? Johanna, standing behind mom-as chair, should not have smiled and clapped her hands to her mouth. Barbara ignored her. As she did again, after supper, when, silent, on the young soldiers knee, amid an earnest talk upon interests too public to interest her, she could see her little nurse tip- toeing around the door out in the dim hall, grinning in white gleams of sum- mer lightning, beckoning, and point- ing upstairs. The best way to treat such things is to take no notice of them. In the bright parlor the talk was still on public affairs. The war was over, but its issues were still largely in sus- pense and were not questions of boun- daries or dynasties; they underlay ev- ery Southern hearthstone; the possibil- ities of each to-morrow were the per- sonal concern and distress of every true Southern man, of every true Southern woman. Thus spoke Garnet. His strong, emo- tional voice was the one most heard. Havenel held Barbara, and respond- ed scarcely so often as her mother, whose gentle self-command rested him. Not such was its effect upon the hus- band. His very flesh seemed to feel the smartings of trampled aspirations and insulted rights. More than once, under stress of his sincere though florid sentences, he rose proudly to his feet with a hand laid unconsciously on his freshly bandaged arm, as though all the pain and smart of the times were centring there, and tried good-nat- uredly to reflect the satirical compos- ure of his late adjutant. But when he sought to make light of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, he could not quite hide the exasperation of a spirit covered with their contu- sions; and when he spoke again, he frowned. Mrs. Garnet observed Ravenel with secret concern. Men like Garnet, ad- dicted to rhetoric, have a way of always just missing the vital truth of things, and this is what she believed this stripling had, in the intimacies of the headquarters tent, discern$ in him, and now so mildly, but so frequently, smiled at. Major Garnet, she said, and silently indicated that someone was waiting in the doorway. The Ma- 4 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 63 jor, standing, turned and saw, falter- ing with conscious overboidness on the threshold, a tawny figure whose shoul- ders stared through the rags of a coarse cotton shirt; the man of all men to whom he was just then the most unpre- pared to show patience. TROUBLE. OUTSIDE it was growing dark. The bright red dot that, from the railed housetop, you might have seen on the far edge of Turkey Creek battle-ground, was a watch - fire beside the blackber- ry patch we know of. Here sat Judge March guarding his wagon and mules. One of them was sick. The wagon, un- der a load of barrelled pork and gen- eral supplies, had slumped into a hole and suffered a general giving-way. While in Suez the Judge had paid Cor- nelius off, written a note to be given by him to Major Garnet, and agreed, in recognition of his abundant worth- lessness, to part with him from date, finally. Yet the magnanimous Cornelius, still with him when the wagon broke, went back to Suez for help and horse medi- cine, but trifled so sadly, or so gayly, that at sunset there was no choice but to wait till morning. John, however, had to be sent home. But how? On the Judges horse, be- hind Cornelius? The father hesitated. But the mulatto showed such indignant grief and offered such large promises, the child, of course, siding with the teamster, and after all, they could reach Widewood so soon after nightfall, that the Judge sent them. From Wide- wood Cornelius, alone, was to turn promptly back Well, o cose, seh! Aint I always promp? Promptly back by way of Rose- mont, leave the note there and then bring the Judges horse to him at the ~ camp-fire. If lights were out at Rose- mont he could give the letter to some servant to be delivered next morning. Good-by, son. I cant hear yo prayers to-night. Ill miss it myself. But if yo dear motheh aint too ti-nd maybe shell hear em. It suited Cornelius to turn aside first to Rosemont. You see, Johnnie, me an Majo Gyarnet is got some vey urgen busi- ness to transpiah. An den likewise an mooveh, heres de triflin matteh o dis letteh. What contents do hit contain? Is done yo paw a powerful favo, an yit I has a sneakin notion dat herein yo paw espress hisseff wid great lassi- tude about me. An thus, o cose, I want to know it befo han, caze ef a man play you a trick you dont want to pay him wid a favo. Trick fo trick, favo fo favo, is de rule o Cawnelius Leggett, Esquire, freedman, an ef I fines, when Majo Gyarnet read dis-yeh letteh, dat yo paw done intercallate me a trick, I jist predestinatured to git evm wid bofe ofm de prompes way I kin. You neveh seed me mad, did you? Well, when you see Cawnelius Leggett mad you wants to run an hide. He wount hut a chile no mon hed hut a chicken, but ef deres a man in de wayjis ony in de wayan spec- ially a white manLawd! he betteh teck a tree! The windows of IRosemont had for some time been red with lamplight when they fastened their horse to a swinging limb near the springhouse and walked up through the darkening grove to the kitchen. Virginia re- ceived her son with querulous surprise. Gawds own fool, she called him, fuh runnin off, an de same fool double an twisted fo slinkin back. But when he arrogantly showed the Judges letter she lapsed into silent dis- dain while she gave him an abundant supper. After a time the child was left sitting beside the kitchen fire, hold- ing an untasted biscuit. Throughout the yard and quarters there was a still- ness that was not sleep, though Vir- ginia alone was out-of-doors, standing on the moonlit veranda looking into the hall. She heard Major Garnet ask, with majestic forbearance, Well, Cornelius, what do you want? The teamster advanced with his rag- ged hat in one hand and the letter in another. The Major, flushing red, 64 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. lifted his sound arm, commandingly, and the mulatto stopped. Boy, can it be that in my presence and in the pres- ence of your mistress you dare attempt to change the manners you were raised to? Cornelius opened his mouth with great pretense of ignorance, but Go back and drop that hat outside the door, sir! The servant went. Now, bring me that letter! The bearer brought it and stood waiting while the Major held it under his lame arm and tore it open. Judge March wrote that he had found a way to dispense with Corne- lius at once, but his main wish was to express the hopehaving let a better opportunity slipthat President Gar- net as the person best fitted in all central iDixie to impart to Southern youth a purely Southern education, would reopen iRosemont at once, and to promise his son to the college as soon as he should be old enough. But for two things the Major might have felt soothed. One was a feeling that Cornelius had in some way made himself unpleasant to the Judge, and this grew to conviction as his nostrils caught the odor of strong drink. He handed the note to his wife. Judge March is always compliment- ary. Read it to Jeff-Jack. Cornelius, Ill see you for a moment on the back gallery. His wife tried to catch his eye, but a voice within him commended him to his own fortitude and he passed down the hall, the mulatto following. Johanna, crouching and nodding against the wall, straightened up as he passed. His footfall sounded hope to the strained ear of the Judges son in the kitchen. Virginia slipped away. In the veran- da, under the moonlight, Garnet turned and said, in a voice almost friendly: Cornelius. Yass, sah. Cornelius, why did you go off and hire yourself out, sir? At the last word the small listener in the kitchen trembled. Das jess what I llow to splain to you, sah. It isnt necessary. Cornelius, you know that if ever one class of human beings owed a life-long gratitude to an- other, you negroes owe it to your old masters, dont you? Stop! dont you dare to say no! Here you all are; never has one of you felt a pang of helpless hunger or lain one day with - a neglected fever. Food, clothing, shelter, youve never suffered a days doubt about them! No other labor- ing class ever were so free from the cares of life. Your fellow - servants have shown some gratitude; theyve stayed with their mistress till I got home to arrange with them under these new conditions. But youyou! when I let you push on ahead and leave me sick and wounded and only half way homeyour home and mine, Corneliuswith your promise to wait here till I could come and retain you on wages you, in pure wantonness, must lift up your heels and prance away into your so-called new liberty. Youre a fair sample of whats to come, Cornelius ; youve spent your first wages for whiskey. Silence! you per- fidious reptile! Oh, Cornelius, you neednt dodge in that way, sir, Im not going to take you to the stable; thank God Im done whipping you and all your kind, for life! Cornelius, Ive only one business with you and its only one word! Go! at once! forever! You should go if it were only Cornelius! Ive been taking care of my own horse! Dont you dare to sleep on these premises to-night. Wait! Tell me what you ye done to offend Judge March? Why, Mahse John Wesley, I aint done nothin to Jedge Mahch; no, sah, neither defensive naw yit offensive. An yit mo, I aint dream o causin you sich uprisin heplessness. Me an Jedge Mahch he began to swell has had a stricly private disparitude on tbe subjec o extry wages, accountn o his disinterpretations o my plans an his ignance o de law. He tilted his face and gave himself an argumentative frown of matchless insolence. You see, my deah seh Garnet was wearily turning his head from side to side as if in unspeakable pain; a sudden movement of his free arm caused the mulatto to flinch, but the ex-master said, quietly: Go on, Cornelius. ]OHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 35 Yass. You see, Major, sence dis waugh done put us all on a sawt of equality The speaker flinched Great Heaven! groaned the Ma- again. jor. Cornelius, why, Cornelius! you viper! if it were not for dishonor- ing my own roof Id thrash you right here. Im a good notion Ow! leg go me! I aint gwine to low no daym rebel Ravenel, stroking Barbara and talk- ing to Mrs. Garnet, saw his hostess start and, then try to attend to his words, while out on the veranda rang notes of fright and pain. Oh! dont grabble my whole bres up dat a-way, sah! Please, sah! Oh! dont! You aint got no mo right! Oh! Lawd! Mahse John Wesley! Oh! good Lawdy! yo han bites like a dawg! Ravenel paused in his talk to ask Barbara about the sandman, but the child stared wildly at her mother. Jo- hanna reappeared in the door with a scared face; Barbara burst into loud weeping and her nurse bore her away crying and bending toward her moth- er, while from the veranda the wail poured in: Oh! Oh! dont resh me back like that! Oh! Oh! myGawd! Oh! youll brek de balusters! Oh! my Gawd- Amighty, my back; Mahse John Wes- ley, you a-breakin my bade! Oh,good Lawd a mussy! my p0 back! my ~0 back! Oh! dont draagyou aint a-needin to drag me. Ill walk, Mahse John Wesley, Ill walk! Oh! you a-scrapin my knees off! Oh! dat whip aint over dah! You cant rech it down !ef I bite There was a si- lent instant and the mulatto screamed. With sinking knees a small form slipped from the kitchen and ranfell rose and ran again across the moon- light and into the grove toward the spring-house. Barbaras crying increased. Ravenel said Dont let me keep you from the baby while outside Oh! I didnt mean to bite you, sweet Mahse John Wesley. Fo Gawd IOh!ooh~hyou broke my knees. VOL. XV.7 If youll excuse me, said the moth- er, and went upstairs. Oh! mussy! mussy! yo foot a- mashin my whole breas in! Oh, my Gawd! De Yankees 11 git win o dis an youll go to jaiL The lash fell. Ooh!ooh! Oh, Lawd! Jeff- Jack sat still and once or twice smiled. Oh, Lawd a mussy! my back! Ow! It buns like flah !ooh !oh ! ow! It doesnt hurt as bad as it ought to, Cornelius, and the blows came again. Ow! Dey wont git win of it! Deed an deedy dey wont, sweet Mahse John Wesley!oh!ooh! Ow !Oh, Lawd, come down! Dey des shant git win of it! fo Gawd dey shant! Ow !oh !oh !oh !aah oooo! Now, go! said Garnet. Cornelius leaped up, ran with his eyes turned back on the whip, and fell again, wal- lowing like a scalded dog. Oh, my p0 back, my po back! Moh! its a-bunin upoh! The Major advanced with the broken whip uplifted. Cornelius ran back- ward to the steps and rolled clear to the ground. The whip was tossed after him. With a gnashing curse he snatched it up and hurried off, moan- ing and writhing, into the darkness, down by the spring-house. Garnet smiled in scorn, far from guessing that soon, almost as soon as yonder receding clatter of hoofs should pass into silence, the venomous thing from which he had lifted his heel would coil and strike, and that another back, a little one that had never felt the bur- den of a sin or a task, or aught heavier than the suns kiss, was to take its turn at writhing and burning like fire. The memory of that hour, when it was over and home was reached, was burnt into the childs mind forever. It was then late. Mrs. March, never strong, and, with a sigh, never anx- ious, had retired. Her two hand- maids, freedwomen, were new to the place, but already fond of her son. Cornelius found them waiting uneasily at the garden-fence. He had lingered and toiled with the Judge and his broken wagon, he said, notwithstand 66 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. in we done dissolve, until he had got the worst misery in his back he had ever suffered. When they received John from him and felt the childs tremblings, he warned them kindly that the less asked about it the better for the reputations of both the boy and his father. You cant spute the right an ens- tudy of a man to his own sons chastise- ment, naw yit to low to dat son dat ef ever he lets maw git win of it, he give him double an thribble. When the women told him he lied he appealed to John, and the child nodded his head. About midnight Cornelius handed the horse over to Judge March, reassuring him of his sons safety and comfort, and hurried off, much pleased with the length of his own head in that he had not stolen the animaL John fell asleep almost as soon as he touched the pillow. Then the maid who had undressed him beckoned the other in. Candle in hand she led the way to the trundle-bed drawn out from under the Judges empty four-poster, and sat up- on its edge. The child lay chest down- ward. She lifted his gown, and ex- posed his back. Good Gawd! whispered the other. VII. EXODUS. As Major Garnets step sounded again in the hall, Barbaras crying came faintly down through the closed doors. He found Ravenel sitting by the lamp, turning the spotted leaves of Ilebers poems. Mrs. Garnet putting Barb to bed? he asked, and slowly took an easy chair. His arm was aching cruelly. Yes. The young guest stretched and smiled. The host was silent. He was will- ing to stand by what he had done, but that this young friend with lower mor- al pretensions wholly approved it made his company an annoyance. What he craved was unjust censure. I reckon youd like to go up, too, wouldnt you? Its camp bedtime. Yes, got to come back to sleeping in-doorsmight as well begin. On the staircase they met Johanna, with a lighted candle. The Major said, as kindly as a father, Ill take that. As she gave it her eyes rolled whitely up to his, tears slipped down her black cheeks, he frowned, and she hurried away. At his guests door he said a pleasant good-night, and then went to his wifes room. Only moonlight was there. From a small, dim chamber next to it came Barbaras softened moan. The mother sang low a child hymn. The father sat down at a window, and strove to medi- tate. But his arm ached. The mother sang on, and presently he found him- self waiting for the fourth stanza. It did not come; the child was still; but his memory supplied it And soon, too soon, the wintry hour Of mans maturer age May shake the soul with sorrows power, And stormy passions rage. He felt, but put aside, the implica- tion of reproach to himself which lay in the words and his wifes avoidance of them. He still believed that, angry and unpremeditated as his act was, he could not have done otherwise in justice nor yet in mercy. And still, through this right doing, what bitterness had come! His wifes, childs, guestshis own sensibilities had been painfully shocked. In the depths of a soldiers sorrow for a cause loved and lost, there had been the one consolation that the unasked freedom so stupidly thrust upon these poor slaves was in certain aspects an emancipation to their masters. Yet here, before his child had learned to fondle his cheek, or his home-coming was six hours old, his first night of peace in beloved IRosemont had been blighted by this vile ingrate forcing upon him the exercise of the only dis- cipline, he fully believed, for which such a race of natural slaves could have a wholesome regard. The moth- er sang again, murmurously. The sol- dier grasped his suffering arm, and re- turned to thought. The war, his guest had said, had not taken the slaves away. It could only re- distribute them, under a new bondage of wages instead of the old bondage of pure force. True. And the best and ~ JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 67 wisest servants would now fall to the wisest and kindest masters. Oh, for power to hasten to-morrows morning, that he might call to him again that menial band down in the yard, speak to them kindly, even of Corneliuss fault, bid them not blame the outcast resent- fully, and assure them that never while love remained stronger in them than pride, need they shake the light dust of iRosemont from their poor, shambling feet. He rose, stole to the door of the in- ner room, pushed it noiselessly, and went in. Barbara, in her crib, was hid- den by her mother standing at her side. The wife turned, glanced at her hus- bands wounded arm, and made a soft gesture for him to keep out of sight. The child was leaning against her mother, saying the last words of her own prayer. An Dod bless evybody, Uncle Lev- iticus, an Aunt Jinny, an Johanna, an Willis, an Trudie, an Cnelius a sigh an~ mom-a, anthats allan And pop-a? No response. The mother prompted again. Still the child was silent. And pop-a, you knowthe best last. An Dod bless the best last, said Barbara, sadly. A pause. Dont you know all good little girls ask God to bless their pop-as? Do they? Yes. Dod bless pop-a, she sighed, dreamily; an Dod bless me, too, an an keep me fom bein a dood little dirl.Maam ?Yes, maam. Amen. She laid her head down, and in a mo- ment was asleep. Husband and wife passed out together. The wounded arm, its pain unconfessed, was cared for, pious prayers were said, and the pair lay down to slumber. Far in the night the husband awoke. He could think better now in the al- most perfect stillness. There were faint signs of one or two servants being astir, but in the old South that was al- ways so. He pondered again upon the l)resent and the future of the unhappy race upon whom freedom had come as a wild freshet. Thousands must sink, thousands starve, for all were drunk with its cruel delusions. Yea, on this deluge the whole Southern social world, with its two distinct divisions the shining upperthe dark nether was reeling and careening, threatening, each moment, to turn once and forever wrong side up, a hope-forsaken wreck. To avert this, to hold society on its keel, must be the first and constant duty of whoever saw, as he did, the fearful periL So, then, this that he had doneand prayed that he might never have to do againwas, underneath all its outward hideousness, a more than right, a gen -erous, deed. For a man who, taking all the new risks, still taught these poor, base, dangerous creatures to keep the only place they could keep with safety to themselves or their superiors, was to them the only truly merciful man. He drifted into revery. Thoughts came, so out of harmony with this line of reasoning that he could only dismiss them as vagaries. Was sleep return- ing? No, he laid wide-awake, frown- ing with the pain of his wound. Yet he must have drowsed at last, for when suddenly he saw his wife standing, draped in some dark wrapping, heark- ening at one of the open windows, the moon was sinking. He sat up and heard faintly, far afield, the voices of Leviticus, Virginia, Willis, Trudie, and Johanna, singing one of the wild, absurd, and yet passionately sig- nificant hymns of the Negro Christian worship. Distance drowned the words, but an earlier familiarity supplied them to the grossly syncopated measures of the tune which, soft and clear, stole in at the open window. Rise in dat mawnin, an rise in dat moawnin, Rise in dat mawnin, an fall upon yo knees. Bow low, an a-bow low, an a-bow low a little bit longali, Bow low, an a-bow low; sich a conquerin king! The eyes of wife and husband met in a long gaze. Theyre coming this way, he falt- ered. She slowly shook her head. My love But she motioned for silence and said, solemnly: Theyre leaving us. Theyre wrong! he murmured in grieved indignation. 68 WHITHER THOU GOES T. Oh, who is right? she sadly asked. made a despairing gesture. He mo. They shall not treat us so! ex- tioned to hearken a moment more; but claimed he. He would have sprung to no human sound sent a faintest ripple his feet, but she turned upon him sud- across the breathless air; the earth was denly, uplifting her hand, and with a as silent as the stars. Still he waited~ ring in her voice that made the walls of in vainthey were gone. the chamber ring back, cried, The soldier and his wife lay down No, no! Let them go! They were once more without a word. There was mine when they were property, and they no more need of argument than of ac. are mine now! Let them go! cusation. For in those few moments The singing ceased. The child in the weight of his calamities had broken the next room had not stirred. The through into the under quicksands of dumfounded husband sat motionless his character and ~revealed them to him~ under pretence of listening. His wife. self. (To be continued.) WHITHER THOU GOEST. 9 By Solomon Solis-Cohen. O LOVE, I cried, Thou saidst thy path was strewn With roses; and behold, my naked feet Have tracked in crimson all thy stony street, And faintness cometh swift upon me. Soon Shall I fall prostrate in thy cruel way, With eyes that reck not betwixt night and day Nor any joy of all thou toldst, is won. Wouldst thou turn back? said Love. Nay, nay, I cried, Lead on! O Love, I cried, Thou saidst thine air was filled With unimagined melody; the lays That poets whisper in their hearts; the praise Tumultuous, of the happy birds that build. I hear a burden of all grief and pain Harsh discords of reproachthe broken strain Of one that by a ruined nest makes moan. Wouldst thou turu back? said Love. Nay, nay, I cried, Lead on! O Love, I cried, These be thy flowers that spring, Glorious with crimson stain, beneath my feet; And mine own heart makes melody more sweet, For memoried sorrows, than thy glad birds sing. Fain would I tarry in this happy place, But thou still holdest thine unloitering pace Toward the dark vale beyond the setting sun. Wouldst thou turn back? said Love. Nay, nay, I cried, Lead on!

68 WHITHER THOU GOES T. Oh, who is right? she sadly asked. made a despairing gesture. He mo. They shall not treat us so! ex- tioned to hearken a moment more; but claimed he. He would have sprung to no human sound sent a faintest ripple his feet, but she turned upon him sud- across the breathless air; the earth was denly, uplifting her hand, and with a as silent as the stars. Still he waited~ ring in her voice that made the walls of in vainthey were gone. the chamber ring back, cried, The soldier and his wife lay down No, no! Let them go! They were once more without a word. There was mine when they were property, and they no more need of argument than of ac. are mine now! Let them go! cusation. For in those few moments The singing ceased. The child in the weight of his calamities had broken the next room had not stirred. The through into the under quicksands of dumfounded husband sat motionless his character and ~revealed them to him~ under pretence of listening. His wife. self. (To be continued.) WHITHER THOU GOEST. 9 By Solomon Solis-Cohen. O LOVE, I cried, Thou saidst thy path was strewn With roses; and behold, my naked feet Have tracked in crimson all thy stony street, And faintness cometh swift upon me. Soon Shall I fall prostrate in thy cruel way, With eyes that reck not betwixt night and day Nor any joy of all thou toldst, is won. Wouldst thou turn back? said Love. Nay, nay, I cried, Lead on! O Love, I cried, Thou saidst thine air was filled With unimagined melody; the lays That poets whisper in their hearts; the praise Tumultuous, of the happy birds that build. I hear a burden of all grief and pain Harsh discords of reproachthe broken strain Of one that by a ruined nest makes moan. Wouldst thou turu back? said Love. Nay, nay, I cried, Lead on! O Love, I cried, These be thy flowers that spring, Glorious with crimson stain, beneath my feet; And mine own heart makes melody more sweet, For memoried sorrows, than thy glad birds sing. Fain would I tarry in this happy place, But thou still holdest thine unloitering pace Toward the dark vale beyond the setting sun. Wouldst thou turn back? said Love. Nay, nay, I cried, Lead on! STORIES IN STONE FROM NOTRE DAME. By Theodore Andrea cook. IL nest asme si revesche qui ne se was older than themselves. The sculpt- sente touch~e de quelque r6v6rence ~ ures, full of meaning, above door and eonsid~rer la vastit~ sombre de nos arch and column, the statues in their 6glises, says the old essayist, of the niches, the men and beasts and angels churches in his beloved Paris, with that overhead, were only beheld by eyes that touch of the modern sentiment so rare saw not, only appealed to minds that in the years which were Montaignes. would not understand. Even in 18719 The end of the sixteenth century had the Commune tried to burn down what with it the churches of the Middle Ages the Revolution had left unhurt, though still welluigh perfect, yet learned as lit- not undesecrated. Yet, could they but tle from them, understood as little of have read those signs in stone, the them, as the beginning of the nine- hasty champions of the liberty and teenth. In the last days of the French equality of man must have spared per- monarchy the Gothic cathedralsmu- force a monument so democratic as was tilated, desecrated, misunderstood Notre Dame, so instinct with the con- seemed to have lost all meaning, save in temporaneous life and passion of a peo- the eternal mockery of the devils carved plc that had just begun to feel their outside their walls and grinning above power. It is more particularly to these the city at the wick- carvings, and to the lesser known edness which alone among them, as being the especial cx- Gargoyle at Magnfville pression of the peoples feelings and the (Tliis ~1 the following 0Uh~fl0~ peoples art, that I wish in this place to from by Boeswiswald.) draw attention. VOL. XV.8

STORIES IN STONE FROM NOTRE DAME. By Theodore Andrea cook. IL nest asme si revesche qui ne se was older than themselves. The sculpt- sente touch~e de quelque r6v6rence ~ ures, full of meaning, above door and eonsid~rer la vastit~ sombre de nos arch and column, the statues in their 6glises, says the old essayist, of the niches, the men and beasts and angels churches in his beloved Paris, with that overhead, were only beheld by eyes that touch of the modern sentiment so rare saw not, only appealed to minds that in the years which were Montaignes. would not understand. Even in 18719 The end of the sixteenth century had the Commune tried to burn down what with it the churches of the Middle Ages the Revolution had left unhurt, though still welluigh perfect, yet learned as lit- not undesecrated. Yet, could they but tle from them, understood as little of have read those signs in stone, the them, as the beginning of the nine- hasty champions of the liberty and teenth. In the last days of the French equality of man must have spared per- monarchy the Gothic cathedralsmu- force a monument so democratic as was tilated, desecrated, misunderstood Notre Dame, so instinct with the con- seemed to have lost all meaning, save in temporaneous life and passion of a peo- the eternal mockery of the devils carved plc that had just begun to feel their outside their walls and grinning above power. It is more particularly to these the city at the wick- carvings, and to the lesser known edness which alone among them, as being the especial cx- Gargoyle at Magnfville pression of the peoples feelings and the (Tliis ~1 the following 0Uh~fl0~ peoples art, that I wish in this place to from by Boeswiswald.) draw attention. VOL. XV.8 70 STORIES IN STONE In considering the important mon- uments of almost any French town it is impossible not to be struck, at the outset, with the extraordinary contin- uity of power and sacredne~ss upon the same spot. As Professor Freeman point- ed out, the divisions of Roman Gaul remained the divisions of ecclesiastical France down to the end of the eigh- teenth century, and that because all her greatest towns have been great from the beginning; her oldest cities are im- measurably more ancient than the old- est towns of England, where the con- nection with early times is seen more in institutions than in such buildings as the Maison Carr6e or the many Ro- man relics that beautify Provence and France. Long before the days of Ce- sar the Gaulish camp had been fixed upon the hill by the windings of a river, on the island in a stream, and that cen- tre of military and religious strength has never ceased since its development by Roman civilization. On the east FROM NOTRE DAME. point of the city of Paris, which its first conquerors found sacred, had stood the image of Cerumnus, with the ears of Anubis and hands on knees like Buddha; and when the new creed came, to take a possession that was temporal and spiritual as well, the new churches rose where the old temples had stood the materials were ready to hand, walls and columns changed places, the pillars from the outside now parted the long nave from the aisles, and above the foundations of Jupiters temple on the Seine Island arose the first church to St. Stephen. In 528, when Childebert built the first Notre Dame, as distinct from the older foundation, from the second childhood of the Roman Empire the in- fancy of the Barbarians had still to bor- row the formulas and symbols of its art as of its faith. This was the first great church lighted with windows of glass. It seemed, says the chronicler, that some skilful workman had prisoned day within the fane. And in truth there was little save darkness beyond the walls, a darkness which has scarcely been penetrated yet. But with the downfall of the Frankish Kings the building was entirely reconstructed, like the castle of the feudal lord or the dwelling of the rich merchant, the ch~- teau of Langeais or the house of Jacques Cceur, at Bourges. In England, because the country was comparatively safe, far fewer of these old feudal castles have remained. For the same reason too, in the cathedral towns, a fair, open space of ground was left, from which the tow- ers and buttresses rose unimpeded to the sky. But in France small room was left within the fortress walls to think of such proportions; the houses clustered round the spot of immemorial sanctuary and were built, as at Carcas- sonne or ]Ilouen, even touching the walls of their salvation; for the battlemented churches of Narbonne and other south- ern towns were castle and temple in one. Thus comes it that the parvis of Notre Dame is a comparatively modern space. Like all old soils it frequently needed excavation, for the d~& bris of many cen- turies rose continually like a tide upon the steps of the cathedral. Even down to quite recent years the whole ground was built over, and the excitement easy among such near neighbors often burst from the crowded streets into the church itself. This great cathedral, the central and the mother church of Paris, the type in which the differing details of all the others were bound up and brought in- to harmony, rose swiftly ini~o being, and grew to full perfection almost without the marring of a single line in the first plan. Like a poem smitten into stone, it resumed the life that had produced it; for, as in the r~irror of the Hc~ueric story, or of the INibelungenlied, is seen a whole civilization gathered up in song, so in Nptre Dame the story of France in the twelfth century is writ- ten on an everlasting page, which Vic- tor Hugo has read for this century and those to come. It is almost the last of that story in stone which began before the pyramids and seems ended with the great Gothic churches, with which well- nigh ceased the art of architecture it- self. Even as far on as the beginning of the sixteenth century the love of the builder for his building lingered, and in some few of the great French IRe- naissance chhteaux on the Loire, it is possible to realize what a labor of love was still the work of the old masons, what time unlimited their workmen had, to chisel cunningly at the firm white stone beneath the mellow sun- shine of the South, until each part was filled with something of the individual- ity of the man whose life was spent in 71 72 STORIES IN STONE FROM NOTRE DAME. slow and perfect labor with his hands, until the scheme which gave each workman his allotted task was finished in its harmony of carving, its strength and delicacy of construction and of form. But this was only the last weakened remnant of the spirit which built the cathedrals of the Middle Ages, only the irregular man- ifestation of a splendor which heralded decay. The book had indeed killed the builder. The ruled lines and spaces of Mansard, the treatises and theories of the seventeenth century, finally crushed out the orig- inality which had moved the master - masons; the beautiful lines of art give place to the cold and inexor- able tracings of geometry, the bones of an architecture sick unto death almost show through the fleshless skin. Such buildings were for the courtier and the king, and in those halls of etiquette and ceremony the people had no more part than they had sympathy with their construction or understanding of their uses. But in the great cathedrals, the very names of whose creators are often unknown, individuality is lost, the sum of human intelligence of the day is re- sumed, for Time was their architect and the People was their master-mason; and the people feeling that their church belonged to them, filled it (as at the Fete des Fous) with a laughing, shouting, not too decent crowd; by its altar serfs were freed, enemies were rec- onciled, oaths to treaties taken, sanctuary given to the outcast flying from punishment of his enemy or of the law. Here the doors closed to the high-born sinner that opened to the lowest penitent; here the knight prayed through the first vigil over his virgin arms, then solemnly dedicated to the mother of Christ; here alms and healing were ready for the poorest, nublic assemblies were held, justice was distributed. On fete days sweet - smelling rushes hid the pavement, flowers and branches wreathed the pillars; baptisms, coro- nations, marriages, funerals followed one another; the whole social life was gathered up and sanctified within the walls beneath the protection of the mother church. For the blessings of the Church were as ready for the sub- ject as her curses for the king. Her power seemed to embrace all by one means or another within its grasp. From the very beginning her riches had steadily increased. In an age which was lavish as it was rapacious, devout as it was dissolute, the doe- trines of purgatory and masses for the dead could not but prove materially serviceable. Every rich adherent to the powerful monastery brought his add- ed gift, every rich sinner in the world outside bought by his gift his souls in its pale the poorest man might en- salvation. Still further, the superiority ter and as a priest become the friend of their knowledge and education made of princes. Thus, too, the old unques- the bishops fit members of government, tioned supremacy of dogmatic forms framers of laws, political correspond- and doctrines became a broader and ents in the Latin tongue, which they more humane religion. The Church preserved. In large ways, as in small, was no more an unintelligible thing advantages unseen but no less solid apart, but opened its doors to all men, were invariably to be obtained; for if took a share in all mens doings. The the pope himself could thunder excom- age of priestly supremacy, of an author- munications at the principalities and ity as impenetrable as it was absolute, powers, no less had deacons the upper was passing away, and with it the forms hand of barons, and bishops of the of architecture in which it had found higher dignitaries. This had a strange expression, those forms which in their result. The Church became an actual consecration of a primitive type in- instrument, and a most powerful one, telligible to the initiated onlytaught in the rise of the democracy, for with- that all change or progress was alike 73 impiety. But in the age of the Gothic cathedrals feudality was beginning to show above sacerdotalism, and the peo- ple above feudality itself; so that on these buildings of the people is stamped the mark of their variety, their origi- nality, their progress. At last religion had become sufficiently understood and subordinated to allow beauty and im- agination to take their true part. The church became a symbol understanded of the people and filled with tokens every soul and eye could compre- hend; the stone cried out of the wall and the beam out of the timber answered it. A f e w general and even me- chanical rules might be sufficient to guide the architect, but sculpt- ure with justice claims for its province the im- itation not only of nat- ure but of the charac- ter and passions of the human soul. So the al- 74 tar and the four walls of the interior the priest niight claim, but roof and pillar, arch and portal might be adorned, en- larged, written upon. This, too, with absolute license and without restraint, for the thoughts, the ideas, the dreams that are now scattered broadcast by the press then found one of their chief expressions in the work of the master- mason, who was poet, painter, sculptor, all in one, who covered the face of Eu- rope with the cathe- drals that were each the lasting proof of his imaginative genius. Between 1161 and 1235 Notre Dame was practically finished. Alexander III. laid the first stone, and the Pa- triarch Heraclius cele- brated the first mass Rome, Jerusalem, and Paris, the three great- est of the cities, united to honor the founda- tion. Though a fire somewhat modified the A original arrangement and style of the interior, the cathedral rose with a nnity that was little short of miraculous in so vast a building. The north door and fa- 9ade were, indeed, only begun in 1257, by the care of Jehan de Chelles, and it was not till 1351 that iRavy and Jean le Bouteiller had finished the glass and decoration of the choir; but by 1223 the gr~at entrance was done, and by St. Louis the towers were completed. They were originally meant to support two spires, but when once their long light arches had been crowned by the square cornices carved upon their sum- mits, they seemed so to take hold upon the vacant air that nothing could be added to impair their symmetry, and with a rare forbearance they were left perfect and unfinished. And now in the massive unity of the whole and in the beauty of its details each man might read as in a book the motives, the daily occupations, the beginning and ending of his life. Upon the Porte du Juo~ement were the Vices and the Virtues; the knight spurring on his restive horse, the coward flying from a hare, the monk leaving his cloister; Hope, with a banner, looking up to heaven; Valor in chain-mail, sword in hand; kings and the great ones of the earth going down quick into hell. So, too, upon the Porte de la Vierge the very calendar of the workmans tasks is sculptured, each month with its appro- priate toil. Upon the Porte Sainte- Anne had worked the devil Biscornette, paid by a workmans soul and unable to touch the centre panel through which passed the blessed sacrament. On the Porte Rouge is the statue that has the greatest historical interest of them all, for here, with his wife Marguerite de Provence, is carved the figure of St. Louis, which is supposed to be the on- ly authentic contemporary statue of the Royal Crusader with one exception. But as the walls rose higher the fancy of the artist and his workmen be- came more and more unfettered. As the line is reached from which the gar- goyles first begin to peer and strain out of the stone, the carving is no more restricted to subjects allegori- cal, whether human or divine; strange beasts from earth and sea and sky stretch open-mouthed from every cor- 75 ner. Yet Notre Dame is not so rich in gargoyles, technically so calledthat is, ornamental spouts for carrying off rain-water. Many churches in the Dau- phin6, the roofs of Toul and Chartres, have many more. The few of such old carvings that have been left are among the finest examples of the grotesque art of the Middle Ages. It is by the kindness of one of the few contempo- raries of Viollet le Due the elder that I am enabled to reproduce some of these among the sculptures from Notre Danie. M. Boeswiswalds sketches, one result of his long experience in the great trust of caring for the historic monuments of France, give many striking examples of the kind of spontaneous and unbridled art which we have seen resulted in the building of the cathe- drals. lIJpou the walls of the Sainte- Chapelle, for instance, the water-spouts are all alive: griffins, hydras, winged hounds, and scaly lizards start from roof and buttress, as though in the first moment of their flight and strug- gle they were petrified to stillness and made against their wills to serve as use- ful parts in some great scheme far past their comprehension. Others there are with some strange touch of the infernal in their aspect and expression, or some yet more horrible imagination of the lost human soul; carvings which the simple faith that saw them first ex- plained as the fiends and ministers of 4 hell who circled round the temple at its building, striving to hinder its comple- 28 tion, and were there fixed lifeless for evermore, some as they tried to break loose and fly from the sanctuary, others as they struggled still to enter it and work their will upon it. But a still more terrible form of the grotesque, in its most powerful expres- sion, is to be found in the monsters carved at Laon and a few other of the finer cathedrals, and still higher than we have yet seen upon the walls of Notre Dame. They have absolutely no useful part to play in the construction of the fabric, as have the gargoyles, and they differ also in the greater complete- ness of their representation. They are subservient to no secondary purpose, but seem carved purely to allow the workman a further opportunity to ex- press his thoughts and to secure a last- ing place for them in a building which summed up all the many sides of life and feeling in his age. They even cease to reproduce the forms of nature which have become insufficient vehicles for the thought that is struggling for ~ expression. In these chim~res, as they are called, the unbridled imagination of the artist, confused by the presence of truths which it cannot wholly grasp, has played with fire and jested way- wardly, sometimes bitterly, with the shapes of death and sin. Mr. Ruskin has once and for all explained this branch of creative art, of which exam- ples are chiefly found either in line- drawing or in sculpture: tangible signs are used to express truths other- wise inexpressible; symbols are boldly and fearlessly thrown together in a connection which the beholder is left to make out as he may; the gaps in this connection constitute the nature of the grotesque, which may thus al- low of infinite variety in the subject and method of its fantastic treatment. With such creations the towers of Notre Dame are circled. Some of them are the old originals ; the greater part are recarved, under the inspiring direction of Viollet le Due, from shat- tered or crumbling fragments which still remained to show the intention of the first artist. Prominent among them all is the presiding devil to whom M6ryon s From the Cloisters at Toul. 79 etching has given widest fame. A muscular demon with high cheekbones and flat nose, his lean chin resting on his hands, he sits licking his lips over the sins of Paris. His attendant ghouls are less well known. Look- ing westward over the parvis is a grim fiend throttling a rat, the embodiment of cruelty. Further along a mon- ster grins with the very horror of a laugh. Be- yond him sits a creat- ure in despair almost comic, next to a beast howling furiously at the city which it cannot reach. At an angle of the balustrade a phcenix suckles her young with her own blood, watched by a hideous shape with female breasts, clutching the parapet and looking hungrily for the foul brood she has just lost. Behind her a dog tears at a bullocks throat, next to a monstrous bird with hooded head and vacant eye, scream- ing defiance. Apes and ele- phants and slimy brutes with scales, dragons of the 80 prime and shapes of ancient evil, crowd round the towers. Among them all there is but one human form, a man who twists his fingers in his beard and strains out over the city as though to search for a deliverer from all these horrors. A goat (surely the goat of Es- meralda) looks down quietly from an angle, and behind every cor- ner you expect the mis- shapen form of Quasi- modo climbing to and fro amid such coi~ nial surroundings swinging wildly in tL belfry just above. Une ville sans cloches, says Jacques de Bragmardo, est comme un aveugle sans baston un asne sans cropiZtre et une vache sans cymbales, with many more arguments to induce Gargan- tua to replace the bells which he had stolen; and indeed the sound of their ringing is the one most appropriate to their nearest audience, who sit amid the swing and thunder of those iron tongues, and seem to shout the louder when they peal. In 1472 the At Chartres. bourdon in the south tower, called Jacqueline, and given by Jean de Mon- taigne, rang the Angelus for the first time. In 1643 it pealed for the victory of iRocroy, and for the next five years kept joyfully aswinu, until in 1667 came news of Tournay, Douai, Cour- tray, Lille, and Jacqueline grew well nigh hoarse with so much cheering. So, twenty years after she had to be recast, and in 1805 she was hard at work once more proclaiming the nations ones from IJlm and Austerlitz ATagram. And now the great bell om the Cathedral of Sebastopol keeps her company, as she waits to chronicle the joys and sorrows of the people who have built the tower where she hangs. The great republic that is - - growing round those towers now is the de scendant of that outburst of democ- racy which built them. Small wonder that the cathedrals are becoming bet- ter understood; the spirit that pro- duced them is in their land once more, hampered, it may be, by its very growth; Hausmannized out of all originality, out of almost all remembrance, yet still alive. Il nest asme si revesche qui ne se sente touch6e. There is a legend of the ruined churches in Provence which their poet Mistral has told: A la sourniero Pourrias v~ire ii bord seiureja tout autour . . E, courdura dins lou sus~ri Li mort, un aro, un pi~i, sana metre ~ geinoun; . . E ii campano, desper~li, A brand, ploura de clar eme de long plag- noun. It was the hour when the last day was dead and the next one had not yet been born. The many stars of night were darkened with a cloud that hung for a moment motionless above the city ~ In Mir~ie: In the dusk You might see the floor rising all round . And sewn within their shrouds The dead, one hy one, falling upon their knees; And the hells, of their own accord Aswing, wailing their dirges with long sighs. In Alsace. 81 82 STORIES IN STONE FROM NOTRE DAME. li]~e a pall, then drifted suddenly be- fore a waft of wind that drove the banks of vapor before its path and crisped the cur- rent of the river. The air that had been still and si- lent awoke with a strange rustling, as though its shad- ows h ad become alive. Upon the towers and windows of the great cathedral a light from the low moon shone fitfully and passed and shone again. The wind rose higher, higher still, and the echoes that seemed whirling on its wings grew louder every moment, swelled by a burst of sudden sound from the cathedral towers. The great bells, swinging as though to greet the angry sky, crashed out their welcome till the bel- fry swayed and shuddered and the pillars in the nave swung on their bases like masts upon a troubled sea. Slow chords of deep-toned music swelled along the aisles in waves of harmony that roused the sleeping soldiers from their tombs and gave a voice to ev- ery praying saint. From every crack and crevice of the building, from every water - spout and gaping gargoyles mouth the flood of sound swept out- ward, upward to the bells. A sudden tide of life seemed eddying through the church and rousing in its stones some kindred spirit of the elements. The monsters crouching on the towers I and balustrades rose from their places, snuffing the night - air, and flew or strode or shuffled, each with his pecul- iar gait, toward the summit of the bell- tower; birds, hollow-eyed and cowled, monstrous apes and forms half human and half devil, climbing and griping in a hideous medley, as though the pow- ers of lowest hell were loosed against the temple of the Mother of Christ. The moon sank utterly. Through the thick darkness sounds of hollow laughter, of griding claws and clapping wings, min- gled confusedly with the murmur of the wind that rushed on swiftly toward the east. The black cloud broke above, but not a star was seen, for in the east a greater light grew slowly, till the swift presage of the dawn shot from the horizon like St. Michaels lance and touched the zenith with its point. The forms upon the creeping stone grew gray and still and shrank back to their own places, as the first ray of the morning blazed upon the houses and the river. With a murmur of returning day the city woke to life and the cathedraldied. From Sainte-Chapelle. A RAINY AFTERNOON. By George A. Hibbard. T was a rainy afternoon, and moreover an afternoon that apparently would be rainy until the end. About this there could seemingly be no possible question. There ~ A A \ \ was not a gleam in the sky, not a sign of clearing any- where. The rain had begun in the morning in a fitful and tentative fash- ion, but by luncheon had settled down to a steady pour. Now, outdoors every- thing was soaked and dripping. Large pools stood in the garden-paths, and the fountain, as it threw its thin jets weakly upward, seemed an absurdly superfluous affair. It was dark too, for a heavy mist had fallen upon the landscape, cutting off from sight the lake and the opposite hills, and very dismal with a strong wind moaning through the tall pines. In short it was an honest, unmistakably rainy after- noonan afternoon upon which there could be no thought of anything except staying indoors. The entire party had agreed upon this immediately after luncheon, standing by one of the din- ing-room windows down which the rain- drops ran so thick and fast. Now all had scattered and were busy with the usual occupations of a house-party in such a plight. In the hall one of the Lyddington twins, with a tumbler of water on her head, was struggling, en- couraged thereto by the applause of the spectators, among whom was Blaisdell; in the music-room Miss Ashton was playing the accompaniment for Muffin, who had been longing ever since he came to sing a song of his own compo- sition; in the library Baldwyn was show- ing the other Lyddington girl a new game of cards; in the conservatory Harold Cliffe was smoking alone; Miss Haladene was upstairs writing letters, and Kitty Cheslyn was sitting over the fire with her hostess, Mrs. KerchevaL It certainly does make it a great deal more cheerful, said Mrs. Kerche- val for the third time, referring to the fire which had been kindled at Kittys suggestion, and which now brightly blazing, lit up the room. Yes, responded Kitty, absently. Im sorry, my dear, that youre so blue, continued Mrs. Kercheval, quite as if Kittys blueness had been the subject about which she had been talk- ing all the time; but I dont wonder. Its a fearful day. That isnt italtogether, Kitty re- sponded, sadly. I know, said her hostess, with ready understanding. And was it neces- sary? Sometimes it almost seems that it wasnt, Kitty continued, gloomily. Yes, thats the trouble about being a martyr, commented Mrs. Kercheval; at least its one of the troubles. You never can feel sure that it is worth While. There is always just a little bothersome doubt lest it may be fool- ish and useless, and indeed rather absurd. After you have fastened your- self to the stake and the flames are be- ginning to jump up around you, the pleasing reflection is frequently forced upon you that, after all, you may be nothing more than a rather pretentious and rather ridiculous figure.~~ I dont think that there really could be any doubt in this case. Possibly, assented Mrs. KerchevaL Still, there is always the suspicion that you may be making yourself un- comfortable for nothing. Not, my dear, she went on, that I dont think that you were very good and noble to send him away. There was nothing else to do, said Kitty, positively. A man cant break an engagementand you know how long they have been engaged. Harold, I know, felt it himself, and saw that nothing could be done. Of course weve never said anything, because we couldnt, but he knows that I care about him. And Kitty looked, with eyes swimming with tears, at her dear- est friend and her oldest confidante.

A RAINY AFTERNOON. By George A. Hibbard. T was a rainy afternoon, and moreover an afternoon that apparently would be rainy until the end. About this there could seemingly be no possible question. There ~ A A \ \ was not a gleam in the sky, not a sign of clearing any- where. The rain had begun in the morning in a fitful and tentative fash- ion, but by luncheon had settled down to a steady pour. Now, outdoors every- thing was soaked and dripping. Large pools stood in the garden-paths, and the fountain, as it threw its thin jets weakly upward, seemed an absurdly superfluous affair. It was dark too, for a heavy mist had fallen upon the landscape, cutting off from sight the lake and the opposite hills, and very dismal with a strong wind moaning through the tall pines. In short it was an honest, unmistakably rainy after- noonan afternoon upon which there could be no thought of anything except staying indoors. The entire party had agreed upon this immediately after luncheon, standing by one of the din- ing-room windows down which the rain- drops ran so thick and fast. Now all had scattered and were busy with the usual occupations of a house-party in such a plight. In the hall one of the Lyddington twins, with a tumbler of water on her head, was struggling, en- couraged thereto by the applause of the spectators, among whom was Blaisdell; in the music-room Miss Ashton was playing the accompaniment for Muffin, who had been longing ever since he came to sing a song of his own compo- sition; in the library Baldwyn was show- ing the other Lyddington girl a new game of cards; in the conservatory Harold Cliffe was smoking alone; Miss Haladene was upstairs writing letters, and Kitty Cheslyn was sitting over the fire with her hostess, Mrs. KerchevaL It certainly does make it a great deal more cheerful, said Mrs. Kerche- val for the third time, referring to the fire which had been kindled at Kittys suggestion, and which now brightly blazing, lit up the room. Yes, responded Kitty, absently. Im sorry, my dear, that youre so blue, continued Mrs. Kercheval, quite as if Kittys blueness had been the subject about which she had been talk- ing all the time; but I dont wonder. Its a fearful day. That isnt italtogether, Kitty re- sponded, sadly. I know, said her hostess, with ready understanding. And was it neces- sary? Sometimes it almost seems that it wasnt, Kitty continued, gloomily. Yes, thats the trouble about being a martyr, commented Mrs. Kercheval; at least its one of the troubles. You never can feel sure that it is worth While. There is always just a little bothersome doubt lest it may be fool- ish and useless, and indeed rather absurd. After you have fastened your- self to the stake and the flames are be- ginning to jump up around you, the pleasing reflection is frequently forced upon you that, after all, you may be nothing more than a rather pretentious and rather ridiculous figure.~~ I dont think that there really could be any doubt in this case. Possibly, assented Mrs. KerchevaL Still, there is always the suspicion that you may be making yourself un- comfortable for nothing. Not, my dear, she went on, that I dont think that you were very good and noble to send him away. There was nothing else to do, said Kitty, positively. A man cant break an engagementand you know how long they have been engaged. Harold, I know, felt it himself, and saw that nothing could be done. Of course weve never said anything, because we couldnt, but he knows that I care about him. And Kitty looked, with eyes swimming with tears, at her dear- est friend and her oldest confidante. 84 A RAINY AFTERNOON. And he l?ves you, said Mrs. Ker- chevaL Anyone could see that froni the letter, but why he wrote it I can- not understand. When I asked him to send my fool- ish letter back, it was natural that he should add a few lines, and if they were stronger than they ought to have been it was because, and Kitty smiled sadly, he forgot to remember. Your letter to him was unmistak- able, said Mrs. Kercheval. I am afraid it was. I die every time I think of itand, Edith dear, where is it? Oh exclaimed Mrs. Kercheval, af- ter an almost imperceptible hesitation, Ill give it to you. I had to show it to you, said Kitty; I wanted to know if you thought that it was too awful. In view of all that he had said, be- gan Mrs. Kerelieval, and the manner in which you have always known one another, I dont know Still, interrupted Kitty, you think that it was pretty awful. I think, said Mrs. Kercheval, that anyone reading it, could easily believe that you were in love with himit had a rather heart-broken toneand that he would be perfectly justified in be- lieving it himself. I dont care, responded Kitty, stoutly. I may be, but I wouldnt take him away from her, not if I broke my heart a dozen times, and Im not going to do that. I think it is very noble of you, re- sumed Mrs. Kercheval. Dont use such big, cold words, said Kitty. You make me feel as if I had done something heroicclassic something that implies Greek draperies and an altar at least. Whereas Whereas, repeated Mrs. Kercheval, you have given up a man you care about, because you thought that his duty to another required you to make the sacrifice. Of course, you did it in a Doucet frock, and before your table for afternoon tea, but it was a case of self- immolation all the same. You can un- derstand from the letter that he would have broken everything, although he was perfectly aware that it was not right, if you had not kept him from it. And if I only knew whether Helen really loved him, mused Kitty. With those stately people its so difficult to telL She is so calm about it. I understand, said Mrs. KerchevaL Of course she is very admirable, but I wish she were a little more expansive. It may be strength and depth of feeling. But if Helen suspected anything that Harold had conic to care for you in the way he does, said Mrs. Kerche- val, she would not want to hold him to the engagement. She would not wish to marry anyone who did not wholly love her. Now, suppose she had seen that letter, do you not believe that she would break off everything on the spot? Of course, said Kitty, but she does not suspect anything, and she never will know. Harold likes her and respects her, and her money will be a great help to him, and she will make him very happy, andeverything is most miserable. Kitty Cheslyn, bending forward, rested her head on her arm, and looked away from Mrs. Kercheval at the fire. My dear, said Mrs. KerchevaL Dont mind me, sobbed Kitty, I Im all right now. For a moment both were silent. Oh, Helen, its you, exclaimed Mrs. kercheval, glancing toward the door. Kitty Cheslyn sat up quickly. Yes, answered the girl, entering. Youve written your letters? asked Mrs. KerchevaL Yes, answered Miss Haladene. She rarely talked very much, but no one ever seemed to expect that she would, and yet nobody had ever thought of accusing her of stupidity. Now straying over to the fire in an im- pressive manner, she stood against the mantel in something of a caryatic atti- tude. Isnt it cold? was what Miss Hala- dene said, in her calm, deep tone, gazing solemnly at her hostess. Surprisingly, answered Mrs. Ker- cheval, with something of the deference with which everyone treated the least of Miss Haladenes remarks. Oh, continued Miss Haladene, turning and speaking to Kitty, I A RAINY AFTERNOON. 85 found something belonging to you a little while ago. To me ! exclaimed Kitty. Yes, said Miss Haladene, taking a ~ letter from the pile she held in her hands. Its a letter addressed to you, and I picked it up on the upper laud- ing. She handed the letter to Kitty and prepared to leave the room. Ill put these on the hall-table, she con- tinued, going out, so that theyll go by the evening post. Good heavens! cried Kitty, as soon as i~Iiss Haladene had disappeared, fac- ing about and speaking to Mrs. Ker- cheval in quick consternation. What is it, my dear? The letter, gasped Kitty. What letter? demanded her host- ess. The letter from Harold Cliffein- closing my letter, that I gave you to read, she answered, staring at the en- velope, How did it ever happen to be on the stairs? It must have fallen there by acci- dent, said Mrs. Kercheval, confusedly. You must have dropped it, ex- claimed Kitty reproachfully, and its open. She hurried the document into her pocket, as if with an instinctive desire for its immediate concealment. Never mind, said Mrs. Kercheval, soothingly. She could have spoken soothingly to Marius amid the ruins of Carthage, if she had happened to be sitting on the next column. Never mind, she murmured, no one can have seen it before Helen picked it up But Helen began Kitty. But Helen, repeated Mrs. Kerche- val; and then, as if at last realizing some point that had for the moment escaped her attention, but Helen Of all the people in the world, ex- claimed Kitty, breathlessly. Yes, assented Mrs. Kercheval. But she wouldnt have read it she couldnt have read it, urged Kitty. No, of course, said the other. It would be impossible for her, although k the temptation would be tremendous. ~ She must have recognized Harolds writing, and of course she would be curious to know what the man to whom VOL. XV.9 she was engaged had to write to a girl like you, of whom she has always been a little jealous. Nonsense, retorted Kitty. Its true, maintained Mrs. Ker. cheval; and then she added, rather in- consequentially, but what a terrible thing for her to read. Then you think she did read it ? asked Kitty, anxiously. My dear, answered Mrs. Kerche- val, I dont think anything, I cant think anything. We havent any means of judging. She brought it to you, but of course that doesnt help us in any way. It may have been the fear- lessness of innocence, or she may have done it merely to turn aside any pos- sible suspicion, or it may have been just in defiance. Theres nothing that will enable us to form any conclusion. Helens character, suggested Kitty. Yes, and when you think of that, any such idea seems absurd. With that simple, stately way of hers, she never could have condescend- ed to do such a thing. Really, said Mrs. Kercheval, its quitewhat do they call ita psycho- logical study. Given such a person with such a character and experiences, would she do it? Its a fearful puzzle, said Kitty, in her agitation recklessly rumpling her hair. The steady downpour of the rain sounded monotonously and the wind roared in the chimney. Its raining harder than ever, said Mrs. Kercheval, glancing at the window. Its an awful afternoon, murmured Kitty; and then she added: Oh, do you think she did it? do you think she can have seen what he said and what I said? and do you believe that she knows that I was soso horrible? I can see how you must feel about it, answered her companion ; I should like to give you comfort if I could. I feel guilty about it, as I had the letter, and I would do anything to help you, butas you say, its a puzzle. How can anyone know what a girl would or would not do? But Helen is such a simple charac- ter, so high-minded, with such a very great deal of principle. 86 A RAINY AFTER NOON. Of course its very improbable, conceded Mrs. Kercheval. Oh, its niadding! said Kitty, get- ting up and ~going to the window. There isnt anything to do about it, said Mrs. Kercheval; or rather, there isnt any reason why anything should be done. I suppose not, said Kitty, pressing her forehead against the cool pane, but I should like to know. At that moment the increasing clamor in the hall attracted Mrs. Kerchevals at- tention. There had been noise before, but now there was a perfect tumult. What can they be doing? she said, curiously. I must go and see. The striking of the clock aroused Kitty and she turned around. Half- past four. For almost half an hour she had stood in deep thought, unconscious of the riot in the next room. As a usual thing, she would have been with the rest and as eager as any, but this after- noon it seemed to her that to carry glasses of water on her head or pick up handkerchiefs with her teeth would have been impossible, and that even the game of hide - and - seek she knew to be imminent must fail to interest her. She said to herself that she was de- pressed because it was so very rainy. Standing in the middle of the room she hesitated. Should she slip off up- stairs and not appear again until she came down dressed for dinner, or should she join the others? She knew that if she went upstairs she would cry, and she did not wish to do that, but she was aware that if she remained there she would soon be called out to do some parlor trick or other, and such a proceeding she instantly character- ized in her mind as ghastly. She had almost determined that to go up and weep it all out alone, before the evening, would be both judicious and comforting, when she heard her name loudly called in the hall. Before she could answer Harold Cliffe appeared at the door leading into the library. Dont go, he said, eagerly. Come here; Ive something to tell you. But I cant, she exclaimed, it is no use. We mustnt You dont know anything about it, he continued, excitedly. Its most im- portant. From the hall there came loud cries: Miss Cheslyn, Kitty, Come and be an elephant. They want me, said Kitty, tear- fully, to go and do the elephant eat- ing peanuts at the circus. Its my great act. Come and be the little boy who feeds me. This is serious, said Cliffe. Theres no one in the library; I must speak to you at once. Is it right? asked Kitty, reluct- antly. Yes, he said, decidedly. Not now, said Kitty, in answer to tbe summoning cries, and then quickly followed Cliffe into the next room. As soon as they were well within the library, Harold turned and took both her hands within his own. I couldnt wait, he said quickly; I had to see you at once. You know we shouldnt, remon- strated Kitty. Its all right, I tell youand I love youlove youlove you. Oh, she exclaimed, I mustnt lis- ten to you. You can, he continued, I can teU you now. Now, she repeated, in amazement. Yes, didnt I tell you it was all right? But what can make it right? Everything is all over. I can say what I please. Helen has just told me that she didnt want to go on any longer She has broken the engagement? gasped Kitty. Yes, he said, absolutely, finally, irretrievably. She came a short time ago to the conservatory and told me that it couldnt be. Did she give any reasons? asked Kitty. Not that I can remember. She said something about our both discovering that it was a mistake, and that it was just as well that we found out before it was too late. We were both rather con- fused. But she has turned me off, thrown me over, set me free completely, and I can tell you now that I love you and always have loved you, and that 0 w A RAINY AFTERNOON. 87 you must manage to love me a little bit, immediately. No, no, no, said Kitty, drawing back. What is the matter? demanded Cliffe, in astonishment. Dont you cant you Yes, you know, replied Kitty. But, oh, its all wrong and I dont like it, and dont know what to do. I dont understand, he said, blank ly. I cant believe that it is possible, she continued. That what is possible? asked Cliffe. That she could have done it. Kitty, he said, are you quite de- mented, or do you mean that I should be? Im going to tell you, she went on. That letter What letter? he said. Kitty, if you dont wish to see me become a gib- bering idiot, tell me what you mean at once. Your letter, with my letter, she ex- plained; I gave it to Mrs. Kercheval to readyou know that we have beeii friends always, and I wanted to know if she thought that I had been too horribly bold and forward, in sending you back to Helenand it was lost, and Helen found it on the upper landing of the stairs only an hour ago and gave it to me. What of that? asked Cliffe. Cant you see? If she read it, she must have known about all that hap- pened, and that I cared about you, and that you But you dont think she would read it? No, I dont, replied Kitty, or rather I didnt. But now her break- ing off the engagement at onceit seems very strange. It certainly is queer, assented Har- old. And her absolutely giving you to me as it were. Kitty paused a moment, and then went on in a sudden outburst. Oh, I wont take you that way. Kitty, he said, this is absurd. I dont care, she said. If she read the awful thing, she must have thought that I was dead in love with you, and she may have done this just from pity; and even if I am dead in love with you I wont be pitied, and I wont have you just because~nother girl is sorry for me. But she must have seen that I loved you.~~ Then I wont have her think that I tooh you from her. Its dreadful any- way, and nothing can be done about it. I dont believe that she read it continued Cliffe. Neither do I, said Kitty. Then- he began. But I am not sure, positive, she hurried on, and I cannot endure to think that she may know, and have done this because she knew. This is wild nonsense! he ex- claimed. It may be, she said, but it is the way I feel about it, and a great n~any girls would feel the same. What am I to do? he asked, help- lessly. I cant very well go to Helen and ask her if she read the letter. No, no, no, cried Kitty. And yet if you persist in your ob- stinacy he continued, indignantly. It isnt obstinacy, she interrupted, its a proper, natural feeling. You be- long to Helen I dont any longer. How can I tell what she may think? At this very moment she may be cry- ing her eyes out and blaming me for in- terfering and coming between you; for that, of course, that is the way she would look at it. But you know you didnt. And you know Helen doesnt care anything about me; that it, was just a family ar- rangement, and that we both agreed to it when we were so young that we didnt understand. What you say cant make any dif- ference, she replied. I will iiot take you from Helenas a gift. Cliffe paused, mutely raging. I am sorry that you cant see it the way that I do, she continued. You will think I am silly and fickle, but I cant help it. If I did as you wish I should always feel that we hadnt start- ed the right way, and if everything isnt natural and proper I wont have any- thing. But it is natural and proper. 88 A RAINY AFTER NOON. Not when you were engaged to an- other woman who gives you up to me, she said. I ont be indebted for my happiness to someone else. I should always have to feel that I owed too much, and the thought would be a bur- denan intolerable burden. Kitty! he exclaimed, you are ridiculousand inconsistent, andand cruel. Go away, she begged, struggling to keep back the tears while he was in the room. I will, he said, angrily. Please, she urged. Without a word he turned and dis- appeared through the doorway. Kitty! exclaimed Mrs. Kercheval, who entered almost at the moment of Cliffes exit, and saw Miss Cheslyn as she leaned forward, sobbing, with her face in the cushions of the window-seat. Dont say you are sorry for me dont say anything, Kitty entreated. Ive just got to be miserable until I get over it. What is the matter? asked Mrs. Kercheval, sitting down beside her. Oh, that letter, moaned Kitty. I wish it were in and she paused, evi- dently seeking for a sufficiently terrible spot to which to consign that unfortu- nate document in the Dead Letter Office. There is something more? in- quired Mrs. KerchevaL There is a great deal more re- sponded Kitty. Helen has broken her engagement with Harold, and he has just been here and asked me to marry him. Why isnt that all right? demand- ed Mrs. Kercheval, cheerfully. Because its all wrong, answered Miss Cheslyn, impatiently. It isnt as if Helen had done it of her own free will. She read the letter andit makes me feel as if I had begged him from her. You must not be so proud. Is it pride? she asked. I didnt know what it wasbut if it is pride, then I am proud, very proud. Besides, Harold wouldnt think the same of me if it all came about in this wayif I just tamely consented to be handed over to him by someone else. There wouldnt be anything in what I gave, because I couldnt have given unless she had made this sacrifice. I dont believe that he would think of anything so silly, ejaculated Mrs. Kercheval. Then I should, and it would seem to me that I wasnt giving anything. Dont you know the world has always maintained a pleasing fiction that we yield to mens importunities? There wouldnt be any graceful fiction about this at all, and Harold would have the right to think and to say, if he could consent to be so meanwhich I dont believethat I had fairly thrown my- self at his head. Then, said Mrs. Kercheval, chang- ing her system of attack, you believe that Helen really read the letter? Hasnt she done exactly what she naturally would do if she had read it? demanded Kitty. Yes, conceded Mrs. Kercheval, re- luctantly. Its a matter of backward reason- ing, said Kitty; theres a Latin name for that, but I dont remember itand, arguing from the effect, one must be- lieve that such was the cause. Oh, logic ! said Mrs. Kercheval, with a slight wave of the hand that expres- sively completed the sentence. Its a case for the strictest scientific methods, said Kitty, trying to laugh; and theres no getting away from the result. Still, I think you are wrong in what you are doing. I know that I am right, respond- ed Kitty, decidedly. Theres no other way about it. I must know that it is all overnaturallybetween Harold and Helen, or I wont agree to any- thing. How very trying! exclaimed Mrs. Kercheval. I dont like it, you may imagine, said Kitty; indeed, I particularly dis- like it. But now Im just going to run awaytheyll be calling for me again At that moment Mifflin entered. Miss Cheslyn, he besought, do please come and do the elephant. They say youre the best thing since Jumbo, and I want to feed you. Ive been in b A RAINY AFTERNOON. 89 the pantry and got some of these choc- olate things. Then I will come, said Kitty, promptly. You knew what would tempt me. Hurrah! cried Muffin, hastening out, shes coming. Are you going? asked hei hostess. I thought you wanted to go up- stairs? No, said Kitty, with a quick sigh. Whats the use? Ive got to get used to it some time, and Id better begin. Therefore Ill just go and be an ele- phant. She followed Mifihin out of the room. Mrs. Kercheval did not move. The fact that Algy was away she felt dis- tinctly was a grievance. She wanted to speak to him immediately. Then she sighed and reflected that she must be very silly, after five years of marriage, to feel the necessity of talking over everything with him at once. Besides, he certainly had been very careless. If she could have imagined that he could be so negligent, she never would have given him the letter. When she was not remorseful she was furious. Here Blaisdell sauntered into the room. Horrid day, she said, glancing around at him. Horrid! he replied, cheerfully, not at alL Very good for a change, and what is better than a jolly party in- doors? It sounds like a conundrum, she answered, and I cant think of the answer unless its like that one about the little pig under the gate, and I should say two parties. Continuing the pig analogy, he went on, one seems to make noise enough. As he spoke there came laughter and loud applause from the hail, where Kit- ty was doing her great act. But why are you here all alone? he asked. Im blue, she said, darkly, deep- ly, beautifully blue, as someone some- where says about the sky. Whats the matter? he demanded, sitting down. No, she said, dont sit down. Go away. If you dont Ill confide. You know that is something that is always fatally easy for me a I feel the im- pulse coming on. Would it be such a terrible thing if you did? Ive been too careless, too shocking- ly careless already, she answered. I saw, he said, that your serenity, like the day, was a little overcast. This is no joking matter, she ex- claimed. I see it isnt, he responded, laugh- ing. Really, she continued, I dont know what to do. First, it might be well to tell me. Yes, said Mrs. Kercheval, quite as if she had never had any hesitation about the matter.. You must advise me. Algys no use at all in such a thing as this, besides, its really all his fault But what is it? Blaisdell inter- rupted. There was a letter, continued Mrs. Kercheval, that Harold Cliffe wrote to Kitty Cheslyn, returning a letter of hers. They were both very important letters, written impulsively, and ought never to have been sent at all. Harold enclosed Kittys in the envelope con- taining his, and this was given to me. I read the contents and then and then What? asked Blaisdell. I gave it to Algy, confessed Mrs. Kercheval; I know it wasnt right This habit of yours, said Blaisdell, of always consulting Algy, is some- thing very beautiful in the abstract, but awkward in the concrete. I cant help it, she explained, I just have to tell him everything. I know, said BlaisdelL As a picture of wifely devotion it is very in- teresting, and has its advantages as an example of what married life should be; but there are times well, what was the matter on this occasion? He lost the letter. Naturally, exclaimed Blaisdell. There isnt anything that Algy wouldnt lose, unless its the presence of mind to excuse his worst carelessness. He dropped it on the upper landing of the stairs, Mrs. Kercheval continued. 90 A RAINY AFTERNOON. How do you know? Because Helen Haladene found it just nowHel~i of all peopleand gave it back to Kitty. Really? said Blaisdell, with what appeared to be deeper interest. But I dont see anything so very terrible in all this. Oh, sighed Mrs. Kercheval, that isnt alL You know Harold was en- gaged to Helen. Yes~ said Blaisdell, frowning. But all thats at an end How do you know? she exclaimed. Well, Helen immediately broke her engagement, and he, of course, went directly to Kitty. She wouldnt look at him because she said she didnt want to have him given to her by Helen, and all sorts of thingsand they are all out, and everything is wrong. Then you think that Miss Haladene read the letter? said Blaisdell, jump- ing to his feet. What else could anyone think? answered Mrs. Kercheval She must have read it, and just dismissed Harold in pique Butbut began Blaisdell. What is it? asked Mrs. Kercheval, noticing with some curiosity Blaisdells excited manner. Iyou, he went on, Miss Hala- dene has just promised to marry me, andwe are engaged. Good gracious! cried Mrs. Kerche- vaL Why didnt you tell me before? I never dreamed there was anything between you two. I dont think the world ever has suspected anything. Still I have ad- mired loved her for a long time. Blaisdell paused, and began to walk backward and forward, nervously, be- fore the window. I knew she was en- gaged to Harold, and I thought there was no hope. This afternoon, though, she gave me to understand that it was all overI did not know the engage- ment had only just been brokenand then I spoke and she accepted me, and I was the happiest man in the world. I congratulate you, said Mrs. Ker- cheval;warmly. Helen is a dear girL Yes, continued Blaisdell, indiffer- ently. Then he added: But I cant, I wont think that she read it. I dont know anything, said Mrs. Kercheval; I cant understand. Its unbearable, continued Blais- dell. Dont you see that if she did read the letter and in pique broke her engagement with Harold, why What? asked Mrs. Kercheval. She may only have accepted me out ofpique. Oh! she exclaimed. It has been done beforewhy should it not happen now? he went on, excit- edly. It isnt possible! she cried. If the first is possible, then the last is possible. I cant suspect Helen, and yet there will always be this doubt. You mustnt think of it, she urged. I cant help it, he answered. I wont insult Helen by asking her. She would have a perfect right to refuse to answer me. And yet I cannot be sure I wish Id never heard of the both- ering letter, said Mrs. KerchevaL You may believe that I wish the same. I thought it had made trouble enough with Harold and Kitty, la- mented Mrs. KerchevaL But now, you It all depends on whether she read it or not! he exclaimed. But it would be so unlike her, ar- gued Mrs. KerchevaL She may have yielded to a sudden impulse, he suggested. Helen is not the kind of person to yield to a sudden impulseat least I have always thought that she wasnt. She is always so quiet and dignified. I knowI know, exclaimed Blais- dell, desperately. It really isnt possi- ble. What a puzzle, said Mrs. Kercheval, helplessly. It seems pretty well mixed up, he admitted, and quite helpless. Oh, dear, sighed Mrs. Kercheval, what an afternoon. I dont think I ever passed one that was much more eventful, although it is so rainy. Cant you do anything? demanded Blaisdell, abruptly. Were all in a ter- rible state of misunderstanding you must set this right in some way.~~ i a A RAINY AFTERNOON. 91 What can Ido? she pleaded; I am as powerless as anyone. You must find something, urged Blaisdell. You cant leave us all like this. He stood before her, half admonish- ing, half entreating. Oh! cried Mrs. Kercheval, sud- denly, and she began to tap violently on the pane. If you dont help us, he went on, theres no help for us. Its Algy! she exclaimed, pointing to a horseman who had just ridden up to the door. How provoking. He thinks Im glad that hes come back and dont understand at all. Go, she com- manded, turning to Blaisdell, tell him to come here at once. Tell him not to mind how muddy he is. I want to speak to him immediately. Mrs. Kercheval again turned to the window as Blaisdell hurried away. I couldnt bear it any longer, said Kitty, meekly, creeping into the room a moment later. Oh, its you, murmured Mrs. Ker- cheval, unceremoniously. Yes, said Kitty, Ive been an ele- phant, and Ive danced for themand Ive told them stories, and now Ill go and be comfortably miserable. This wretched affair! cried Mrs. Kercheval, theres no end to it. Is there anything else? asked Kit- ty, in astonishment. A great deal else. What? Why began Mrs. Kercheval, then she exclaimed, jumping up: Oh, Algy! Kercheval had entered the room, smiling cheerfully. How could you? she continued, rushing at him and seizing him by the lapels of his dripping coat. Take care! he cried, youll get all wet. Then shaking himself he went on. But is this the way to welcome a fellow back to his own hearth on such an afternoon as this? Why, you look positively ferocious. What have I done now? The letter, said his wife. There is such a trouble, and all because of your carelessness.~~ Kitty, said Kercheval, turning to the girl, do you understand any- thing of this? Im sure I dont. Yes, answered Kitty, Im in it Im part of the trouble. Will somebody explain? he begged. Why, that letter from Harold to Kitty that I gave you to read You gave it to him to read? de- manded Kitty. Yes, said Mrs. Kercheval. I for- got that I hadnt told you; but never mind now. Then, turning to Kercheval and gently shaking him, she went on. iDo you remember the letter? Oh Algydont say you dont. But I do, he said, perfectly. Thats something! she exclaimed. Well, after you had lost it Helen found it, and gave it to Kittyand then Helen broke the engagement with Harold, and when he asked Kitty to marry him she wouldnt because she said that Helen was giving him to her and that isnt all. Now Helen has accepted Blaisdell, and he is furious because he is afraid she has done it merely out of pique Really? cried Kitty. I didnt have a chance to tell you, she said. Then turning back to Ker- cheval she demanded: Do you think Helen did it; do you think such a girl as Helen would read it? With your knowledge of human nature would you believe that it was possible ? But, hold on, remonstrated Ker- cheval; such a question may be very interesting merely as a matter of spec- ulation. It isnt a matter of speculation, she contended; its a real, living, pressing, burning question, and per- haps the fate of four people depends upon the answer. If Helen didnt read the letter Harold wrote, then its all right And if she did? Then its all wrong, and theres no way out of it. They have all got to be miserable. Butdo you think she did read it? No, said Kercheval, slowly, I dont think she did. But you cant be sure. I can, he answered, I can be ab- solutely, positively sure. 92 A RAINY AFTERNOON. What do you mean? both Kitty and Mrs. Kercheval demanded. Where is the letter Helen found and gave to you? he asked, looking at Kitty. Here, replied Kitty, producing the envelope that Miss Haladene had given to her. Just look inside, said Kercheval, calmly. Kitty did as she was directed, and drew forth a thick piece of blank pa- per. Ive got the letter here, said Ker- cheval, tapping his pocket. Thats only the envelope and a piece of paper that must have been put in to keep the writing from showing through. Oh! cried Mrs. Kercheval, throw- ing her arms around his neck, what a relief. I must have put the envelope in an- other pocket and it must have dropped out. If you had only looked he remonstrated. Who would ever have thought of such a thing, said Mrs. Kercheval, raising her face from its damp resting- place on his shoulder. Of course we thought it was the letter. But now I can breathe again, and I am so glad that I shant say anything about your dropping the envelope. But you must see what a fright we had. A letter in the handwriting of the man to whom she was engaged addressed to the girl with whom she knew that he had been flirting You think, said Kercheval, ~ that this would be a stronger temptation than feminine curiosity could resist? Theres no use thinking about it now, she said, since she didnt read the letter and its all right. Kitty, she went on, sharply. Yes, replied the girl, looking up quickly and faintly smiling. Thats right, said Mrs. Kercheval, thats the first time Ive seen you look really happy since youve been here. But, said Kitty, Im so glad to know surely. And so am Iand you must tell Harold at once, and I will go and tell Mr. Blaisddll. And Algy she said, bustling about. Yes, he answered, apparently arousing himself from deep thought. You, she continued, must go and drink something strong and hot, and put on some dry things immediately. Yes, Im going, he answered, ab- sently. Go, then, she commanded, hurry- ing Kitty out of the room. Make yourself presentable and then come back at once and let me tell you every- thing. See, she said, as a ray of sun- light fell across the room, it is clear- ing; I shall want you to take a turn with me on the terrace before dinner. Oh! it has been such an afternoon. But Kercheval did not immediately do as he was bid. With one foot on the window-seat he stood meditatively looking out at the sky, where the clouds in great masses were now rolling rapid- ly away. Its all very well, he said, in half- conscious soliloquy, after Mrs. Ker- cheval and Kitty were gone, but it doesnt prove anything. What I should really like to know is whether or not she looked into that envelope after all. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. By Frederick Keppel. HAD Sir Joshua Reynolds never become stale and unacceptable; yet painted a picture, he would still there are a few that never grow old, but remain a most interesting per- like some fairy-tale told and retold to sonality, solely for what he was and for a child, never lose their charm. The the friends he made. lives as well as the works of great ar- Most subjectsespecially from the tists are subjects of this sort; and journalistic point of viewvery soon when, as in the case of Reynolds, the VOL. XV.1O Sir Joshua Reynolds, painted by himself. (From tlie engraving by Sherwin.)

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. By Frederick Keppel. HAD Sir Joshua Reynolds never become stale and unacceptable; yet painted a picture, he would still there are a few that never grow old, but remain a most interesting per- like some fairy-tale told and retold to sonality, solely for what he was and for a child, never lose their charm. The the friends he made. lives as well as the works of great ar- Most subjectsespecially from the tists are subjects of this sort; and journalistic point of viewvery soon when, as in the case of Reynolds, the VOL. XV.1O Sir Joshua Reynolds, painted by himself. (From tlie engraving by Sherwin.) great artist was also a man thorough- ly respected and cordially liked, and moreover, when his intellectual endow- ments caused his society to be sought by the finest minds of his agethere is some warrant in retelling a story, much but not all of which has often been told before. 94 Portrait of Dr. Samuel Johnaon. (From the engraving by William Dou~hty.) It speaks well for any man to have been the intimate personal friend of the very best people of his own day and generation. And what superlatively good company was that which Sir Josh- ua kept! The famous Literary Club, established at the artists own sugges- tion iii 1764, and of which he was tho president, contained perhaps a higher average of intellect, and even of genius, than any other similar association. At least four of the most famous men of that historic circle lived and died in comparative poverty, but now that a century has passed away, what mat- ters poverty to such men as Samuel Johnson, or Edmund Burke, or Rich- ard Brinsley Sheridan, or Oliver Gold- smith? The familiar engraving A Literary Party at the House of Reynolds, brings them all before us. A number of gen- tlemen are seen seated round the hos- pitable artists table ; the burly and masterful Dr. Johnson, in a huge wig, is thundering at Edmund Burke, while 95 Dr. Oliver Goldsmith. (From tlie engraving by March.) 96 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. behind the doctors chair is Boswell, taking notes; Sir Joshua himself (who was very deaf) sits quietly listening through his ear - trumpet; Garrick is there, bright and alert, and Oliver Goldsmith looks as if he would much rather be talking himself than merely hstening. Goldsmith was generally the butt of that brilliant company undersized, ill-favored, bald, scarred with small- pox, improvident and impecunious, vain, dressy, and talkative as a magpie; but to-day perhaps the brightest star of that brilliant constellation. Success and adulation made Garrick vain; but Goldsmiths vanity did not require these aids. And yet we sympathize with him still on such occasions as that when his amour -propre was so ruthlessly crushed and trampled upon at a meet- ing of the Club, where he was delivering himself of some intellectual harangue doubtless to his own entire satisfaction and a certain German Herr Professor (who had been casually admitted), on seeing Dr. Johnson begin to puff and roll in his chair as his manner was when an idea struck himsuddenly broke in upon the luckless Goldsmith with Ach! blease be silendt; Toctor Ghon- son iss going to zay zomezing! When his landlady had Goldsmith arrested for debt, the only possible as- set through which his friend Johnson could hope to extricate him was the manuscript of a tale which Goldsmith had written, but had never attempted to publish. This Johnson took to a publisher and advised him to buy it for sixty pounds. What would have been poor Goldsmiths emotion could he have looked into the future and wit- nessed a recent event which took place in Germany: the editor of a widely circulated journal there took the votes of his subscribers as to their favorite book, and this same tale of Goldsmiths The Vicar of Wakefield came in at the top of the poll! This was the man whom Reynolds chose as his most intimate companion, though after Goldsmiths death in 1774, the historian Gibbon seems to have gradually taken his place. Goldsmiths affection is touchingly expressed in his pathetic dedication of his Deserted Village to Reynolds: The only dedi- cation I ever made was to my brother, because I loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. Permit me to inscribe this poem to you. There was indeed only one inferior man among this company of friends; but they little thought, when they tol- erated James Boswell as a sort of harm- less hanger - on of Dr. Johnson, that they themselves (as well as Boswells particular hero) would go down to re- mote posterity, alive and human, in the pages of that book of which Macaulay declares that it can only perish with the English language. Joshua Reynolds was one of a large family of children, and was born in 1723 in the little town of Plympton, Devon- shire, where his father, the Rev. Sam- uel Reynolds, was master of the Gram- mar School. His father, not believing that painting should be considered as a serious profession at all, desired to make a physician of his son, and it is recorded that when the good clergyman found a drawing which had been per- petrated during school-hours, he wrote upon it: Done by Joshua out of pure idleness. But when he was convinced of his sons overpowering bent toward art he had the intelligence not to oppose it further; and he lived to see the be- ginnings of Joshuas success. The young student was bound as ap- prentice to Hudson, then the fashion- able portrait painter of London but more a mere manufacturer of likenesses than an artist. Indeed, until Reynolds himself turned the tide, the English acted on the belief that only a foreigner could paint a good portrait. This was well so long as they employed such masters as Holbein and Van Dyck; but at later periods foreign painters of lower rank, such as Sir Peter Lely and Sir Godfrey Kneller, continued the tra- dition, to the great discouragement of the home school Hudson soon becoming jealous of his clever apprentice, dismissed him, and shortly afterward Reynolds had the good fortune to be taken to the Mediterranean by his life-long friend Admiral Keppel, in the war-ship Cen- turion, and the first portrait which he painted of the admiral was the picture which laid the foundation of his fort- une. From the British war-ship he landed in Italy, where he remained for nearly three years, and from Rome he wrote to his family, I am now at the height of my wishes. And if an art- student ever made the most of his op- portunities for study, Reynolds certain- ly did. His journals during that pe- riod are full of careful notes on the great Italian pictures, and besides written observations he made many sketches of these pictures or of parts of them. He did little direct copying, but sought rather to penetrate the principle of their technic and style. Although France still sends her own 97 Sir Joshua Reynolds painted by himself. (rrom the engraving by James Watson.) 98 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. brightest young painters to complete of great pictures, he never loftily dis- their studies at the Italian capital, yet missed the claims of some recognized in our day Paris, and not Rome, is the masterpiece on the ground that it was Mecca of art - students especially of not Art or not amusing, or of Americans. Of these some are earnest, another because it was ghastly, or of Admiral Keppel. (From the engraving by Doughty.) modest, and hard-working, and will not a third, which had won the enthusi- disappoint the hopes of their friends in astic admiration of the best judges, be- the future. But among many others cause it was merely popular. In- of this Paris colony it is greatly to be deed, so far was Reynolds lacking in feared that a student like young Hey- this fin dc si~cle superiority, that when nolds would be voted a dull, spiritless, he had won recognition throughout plodding fellow; depending very little Europe as being one of the great mas- on his inborn and untaught genius, but, ters of painting, he was not ashamed to on the contrary, taking infinite pains to express himself in the following plain learn what he did not know. He cer- words: Those who are determined tainly was not up to the modern stand- to excel in art must go to their work ard of knowing all about art without whether willing or unwilling; morning, having taken the trouble to learn, nor noon, and night. And they will find it did he look down with an amiable con- no play, but, on the contrary, very hard tempt upon the men who have pro- labor. And again he writes: Noth- duced the great pictures of the world; ing is denied to well-directed labor; and though his journals are full of nothing is to be attained without it. records of close and earnest study It was while studying Raphaels fres Mrs. Sarah Siddons as the Tragic Muse. (From the engraving by Francis Haward.) 100 SIP JOSHUA REYNOLDS. cos in the Vatican that Reynolds caught the cold which resulted in his deaf- ness; and thereafter the ear-trumpet of Sir Joshua was as characteristic a part of himself as was the wooden leg a part of the redoubtable Governor Returning to London in 1752, Rey- nolds soon entered upon that wonder- ful career of success and prosperity which lasted continuously for nearly forty years; and although in ideal com- positions which depend on the artists Peter Stuyvesant. He his own portrait with this trumpet held to his ear; though, when about the same time he painted Dr. Johnson holding a book very close to his eyes, the great man did not relish this vivid evidence of his extreme near-sightedness, but said to Boswell: Sir, he may paint himself as deaf as he chooses, but I will not go down to posterity as Blink- ing Sam. even painted imaginative power, he has certainly been excelled by some other masters, yet in portrait painting he became supreme. To read the mere list of his sitters one would imagine that not only the Brit- ish peerage, but also every celebrity and beauty of the time, had gone in a long procession through Sir Joshuas studio. He used to consider a hundred and fifty finished portraits as a fair years work, and, incredible as it seems, he Angelica Kauffman. (rrom the engraving by Bartolozzi.) was able to finish a head in four hours. His main desire was to paint the coun- tenance of his sitter at its best. His men are all nobleness, his women all loveliness, and his children all simplic- ity; yet they are all like the living or- iginals. Having caught not only the features, but also the expression and the soul of his subject, he loved to ideal- ize the costume and surroundings es- pecially of his ladiesand in the charm and variety of his poses and accessories he has perhaps never been equalled by any other portrait painter. His prices were at first very moder ate, but he continued to advance them without diminishing the number of his patrons. Both he and Garrick were said to have had a keen eye to their own pecuniary interests; but what sensi- ble man does not get all that he lawful- ly and honorably can? The fortune which he left to his niece (besides large bequests to other relations) amounted to about a hundred thousand pounds sterling, but he was liberal as well as prudent, and when making his will not only did he cancel a debt of two thousand pounds which he had lent to Edmund Burke, but he bequeathed 101 Angels Heads. Five portraits of Isabel Gordon, daughter of Lord Gordon. (From P. Simons engraving.) him an additional sum of the same assembled round that table; and had amount. the dumb walls been phonographs, how When in the year 1760, Reynolds re- precious would their records be now! moved to the spacious house, number Few men have ever led a fuller or 47 Leicester Square, where he passed happier life than Reynolds. One of the remainder of his life, he was at the the most sympathetic of his biograph- height of his fame and success. A tab- ershis pupil Northcotesays of him: let over the door still records his occu- He most heartily enjoyed his profes~ pancy of thirty-two years, and the pres- sion, and I agree with Mr. Malone (an- cut tenants, Messrs. Puttick & Simpson, other biographer), who says he appeared the auctioneers of artistic and literary to him to be the happiest man he ever property, are most obliging in pointing knew. Dr. Johnson, who seldom paid out to visitors the various relics of the compliments, said of him that if they mastereven to the banisters of the should quarrel Reynolds would have stone staircase, which were made with him at a great disadvantage, because an outward curve so that the fine ladies he could not say one word to his detri- wearing enormous hoops could pass up ment. His literary powers were of a and down unimpeded. What a proces- high order; but he never could have writ- sion of notable personages did this ten such a book as that strange produc- staircase accommodate; what guests tion of a great artist of our own day 102 Misc Emma Hart, afterward Lady Hamilton, aa a Bacchante. (From the engraving by Samuel william Reynolds.) SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 103 The Gentle Art of Making Enemies; for his whole life was an unceasing prac- tice of the still gentler and more dliii- 4~ cult art of making friends. One secret of his success may be found among the code of rules which he had composed for himself: The great secret of being happy in this world is, not to mind or be affected by small things. In politics he belonged to the small minority, so splendidly led by Burke and Chatham, who steadfastly believed in the ultimate success of those rebels in America who were giving King George the Third so much trouble; and he even won several wagers on the result. The Royal Academy of Arts was founded in 1768, when Reynolds was elected president by acclamation and was knighted by the King. His maj- esty was probably as blind to the real merits of the artist as he was to those of most other great men of his time (though, by the way, George the Third believed in Handel when that great musician was neglected by the fashionable world of London). Notwithstanding Sir Joshuas many occupa- tions, he was tireless in ad- vancing the interests of the Royal Academy, and contin- ued to labor for it to the end of his life. It was he who inaugurated the annual Academy dinner, which in our day is attended by the greatest personages of the land, including the Prince of Wales; and the yearly discourses which he deliv- ered as president have tak- en rank as unquestioned classics in the art lore of the world. They were soon translated into several con- tinental languages, and the Empress Catherine the Great, of Russia, sent their author her portrait set with diamonds, and an autograph letter thanking him for the pleasure and instruction which their perusal had af- forded her. The great suc- cess of these discourses was too much for Sir Joshuas detractors, and though they could not deny their merit, they were fain to declare that their high literary quality was due to the pen of Edmund Burke or Dr. John- son. Burke simply denied the report, and Johnson declared that he would as little think of presuming to write for Reynolds as he would to paint for him. Charles Blanc, the French Academician, while bestowing unstinted praise on Reynolds as a painter, declares that these Academy discourses are still his greatest work; but the eminent critic goes on to say that the artists practice did not always accord with his precepts; as when he ranks drawing above color, while his pictures really are stronger in color than in drawing; or when he declares that Michael Angelo was the King of all artists, but imitates Rem- brandt in his pictures. It is hard to understand what so acute a critic as Charles Blanc can mean when he reproaches Reynolds with imparting an altogether British aspect to his Mercury as a Pickpocket. (From the engraving by John Bean.) portraits. What else would he have them? Ruskin calls Sir Joshua the prince of portrait painters and one of the seven colorists of the world, ranking him iu this respect with Turner aud five of the great Italian masters. IRey- nolds did not attain this mastery of color without working for it. He even went to the extreme of purchasing pictures by Titian and Rubens and de- 104 composing their pigments, thereby hop- ing to pluck out the heart of their mystery. Sir Joshuas zeal for im- proveinent was insatiable. He never began a picture without resolving that he would make it a better one than he had ever painted before. One result of this ambition was, that, in general, the quality of his work became better and better to the end of his life. But in one particular he certainly exercised I ne I-ion. cuss bingeam. (From the eugraving by Bartolozzi.) SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 105 a zeal, but not according to knowl- edge; for having inherited from his father a taste for making experiments in chemistry, he applied it to the com- position of his colorssometimes with disastrous results. Thus I remember that twenty-five years ago his large Holy Family, in the British National Gallery, was in fairly good condition; but on revisiting it yearly it was easy to see that the cracks on its surface were growing more apparent, and that the picture was going to destruction. The last time I saw it it was worse than everand recently the picture has been removed from the walls altogether. On the other hand, the beautiful portrait of Lady Cockburn and her three children (painted in 1773 and recently acquired by the National Gallery) is now as fresh and glowing as it could have been when it first left the painters easel. Some of his methods were peculiar. He usually painted his sitters from their reflection in a mirror, and not from a direct view. He always re- mained standing while at work, and he rarely signed a portrait. One notable exception, however, was made in the case of his magnificent portrait of Mrs. Sid- dons as the Tragic Muse, which was painted when the master was sixty years old and when Mrs. Siddons was twenty-eight. The great actress failing at first to recognize a sort of embroid- ery which the artist had added to the edge of her robe, soon perceived that it contained the words Joshua Reynolds pinxit, 1784; whereupon Sir Joshua assured her that he would be proud to have his name go down to posterity on the hem of her garment! Before com- mencing this picture, the artist, instead of posing the sitter himself, requested Mrs. Siddons to give him her own idea of the Tragic Muse, and she immediate- ~y assumed the pose in which the pict- ure was painted. Sir Joshua Reynolds never married; but like most of the sons of Ad~Cm his life had its romance, and the gossips of the time (if not he himself) were deter- mined that he should marry Angelica Kauffman. This interesting artist was the daugh- ter of an obscure painter, and was born in Switzerland. She came to England VOL. XV.11 ( in 1776, where she met with a very flat- tering reception. She profited greatly by the instruction and the friendship of Reynolds, and was even elected one of the thirty-six original members of the Royal Academy. Her style is attractive from a certain dainty elegance which sometimes borders on affectation, and many of her designs have been beauti- fully engraved by Bartolozzi, Thomas Burke, and others. Although at one time Angelica imagined herself to be deeply in love with Sir Joshua, yet she was a sad flirt, and after having more or less seriously broken the hearts of several adorers, she finished by marry- ing an impostorthe valet of Count de Horn, a Swedish nobleman. This man imposed upon her by assuming not on- ly the title but even the clothes of his master. A curious thing is the passionate love for children which is so often seen in persons who have deliberately chosen a single life. One of the cynical rules which Dean Swift laid down for himself when he had grown old, was to take care not to allow his fondness for chil- dren to be seen. Possibly, if such people as the Dean and Sir Joshua had brought up families of their own, their exalted idea of the angelic attributes of children might have been somewhat lowered; but be this as it may, it is safe to say that the very loveliest portraits of chil- dren that ever were painted are the work of this childless man. His famil- iar group known as Angels Heads~~ is nothing but the portrait of little Isa- bel Gordon, taken from five different points of view. The original, in the National Gallery, happily retains all its beauty of color. It recalls the famous pun of Pope Gregory the Great, Non Angli sed Angeli. The quaint picture of Mercury as a Pickpocket is another example of the masters intimate sym- pathy with children. It is recorded that Reynolds always believed his portraits of women to be his finest works, and it is certain that at the present day such a portrait, or even a fine engraving from it, would sell for a much higher price than could be obtained for any other class of his work. For example, within the present year a proof of Watsons engraving of Lady 106 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. Bampfylde was sold at auction in Lon- don for three hundred and sixty pounds a much larger sum than Sir Joshua received for the original painting. The portrait of the Hon. Miss Biugham life she was a nursemaid at Hawarden (where Mr. Gladstone now lives), but later she seems to have driven the ar- tists wild with admiration for her beauty and grace. Romney has painted several ~d (t4~ ~A~9~#k 4;r A Page from the Account-book of Sir Joshua Reynolda. shows much of the innocence and charm that characterize the masters portraits of children. This beautiful girl lived till 1840, and never married. Perhaps no famous beauty has ever been the subject of so many notable pictures as the celebrated Emma Hart, afterward Lady Hamilton. In early ~ri /Jc~ -a Is /3 C 4 6 admirable portraits of her; and Sir Joshuas represents her in the charac- ter of a bacchante. The fine portrait of Mrs. Billington as Saint Cecilia is one of the few representative examples of Reynolds that are accessible to the American public. It is in the gallery of the Lenox Library, New York. There SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 107 are also a few in private collections; but notwithstanding the masters in ~ dustry and facility of production, fine Sir Joshuas are to-day almost un- procurable. Just at present there exists in Paris a great enthusiasm for the works of Reynolds; and the Salon of the present year contained a considerable number of etchings and engravings after them. But not one of them is satisfactory, and it is evident that the French, with all their cleverness, cannot do him justice. These engravers seemed determined to ~ the originals by adding a coquettish Parisian smirk to the faces; and the result is deplorable. I remem- ber in particular one of these reproduc- tions, in which the sweet and simple little Penelope Boothby is made to look like an artful young schemerfull of craft and arri2re pens~e. Indeed, it is rare to find an engraver of one nation- ality who can do justice to the picture of another. While such masters as Titian, Ra- phael, Rubens, and Turner employed and directed their own engraversfully understanding the value of that subor- dinate art which multiplied and perpe- tuated their own original designsyet it is probable that Reynolds was better served than any other master through what Ruskin calls the noble human labor of the engraver. His rich color- ing and broad style lent themselves especially to the mezzotint process, and, largely through his encouragement and patronage, the contemporary British School of mezzotint engravers produced works which must always rank as mas- terpieces. Within two years from his death as many as seven hundred plates had been engraved after his designs, and during the present century this large number has been greatly in- creased. Upon seeing one of the plates which MacArdell engraved, Sir Joshua ~%~ For the autograph reproduced on the opposite page I am indebted to the courtesy of Mr. Algernon Graves, of Loudon, who has kindly placed at my disposal the two large hooks in which Sir Joshua kept his private memo- randa, from which I have culled some interesting details. These volumes contain a number of notes recording the composition of the colors which he used for certain pict- ures; the notes are written in Italian, probably with the view of concealing his professional secrets from the pry- ing eyes of those who might gain access to the books; but the good mans Italian is so queer that I fear they would have mystified a native of Italy quite as much as they were Intended to mystify his English friends. had the generosity to exclaim: By this man I shall be immortalized! In- deed, he little suspected that this was true in a double sense, in view of the fact that he often made use of perisha- ble colors; and while the decay of any painting in oils is only a question of time there is practically no limit to the lasting powers of those frail sheets of paper. While one must go to England to see the masters paintings at their best, the New York public has had the privilege of seeing the unsurpassed col- lection of these engravings, which Mr. George Vanderbilt contributed to the opening exhibition at the new building of the American Fine Arts Society, in December, 1892. Reynolds himself, in common with many artistsincluding Rembrandt, Sir Peter Lely, and Bonnat had a life -long passion for collecting prints and drawings; and his well- known stamp on the back of some fine old print or sketch is still an endorse- ment and guarantee of its quality. I have never seen mention made of the curious circumstance that many portrait-painters seem to have uncon- sciously given to their sitters a shade of resemblance to their own features. Van Dycks portraits nearly all bear a trace of the masters own elegance of face and figure, the works of Holbein and Rubens give countenance to the same theory, and Rembrandts magnifi- cent portraits, though showing such a wonderful variety, yet all bear a more or less remote resemblance to Rem- brandt himself. The same is true of Sir Joshuas. This may be partly, but not entirely, accounted for by the fact that not only do the individuals of any one nation bear a certain resemblance to each other, and that the same is true of the whole people of any given epoch; but the main reason seems to be that the artist unconsciously imitates his own face. We need not always recog- nize this resemblance by means of a portrait of the artist painted by him- self; for instance, such a portrait as that of Reynolds painted by the Amer- ican, Gilbert Stuart, shows us practical- ly the same face as those painted by Reynolds of himself. This theory has been confirmed by a distinguished 108 SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. American artist whom I have consult- ed. He states further that, in his ex- perience, if two students are drawing from the same model, the one of whom is tall and slender and the other short and robust, each will be sure to impart to his drawing a good deal of his own physical proportions. In 1784 Reynolds lost his old friend, Dr. Johnson. A short time previously Johnson ha& written to him: XVe are now old acquaintance, and perhaps few people have lived so much and so long together with less cause of complaint on either side. The day before he died he sent for Sir Joshua and told him he had three requests to make of him. The first was to fdrgive him a debt of thirty pounds (that was easily granted) ; the second was to read his Bible regularly, and the third was to refrain from painting on the Sabbath day. Sir Joshua, in the fulness of his heart, promised everything; but he afterward found the third promise so irksome that, after having consulted his friends, he came to the conclusion that his old friend had no right to bind him to such a promise, and so he re- sumed his brush on the Sabbath. Reynolds himself was now growing old; but in 1785 he painted the ad- mirable portrait of John Hunter which has been so finely engraved by William ~harp, and the same year he spent a thousand pounds on pictures for his own collection. His enthusiasm for fine things was as strong as ever, and it was by his advice that the Duke of Portland purchased the famous an- tique Portland Vase which is now the pride of the British Museum. He con- tinued to go into society as before, and he was present at some of the great speeches delivered by Burke and Sheri- dan at the trial of Warren Hastings. In 1789, while painting, he was stricken with a disease of the eyesthe same malady which caused the blindness of Milton, and thereafter he could paint very little. But he bore his affliction with great serenity, comforted by the loving attentions of his troops of friends, or in their absence amusing himself with his pet birds. He also made an exhibition of his valuable col- lection of old paintings and banded the proceeds to his servant. In 1792 he was found to be incurably ill from a disease of the liver, and on February 23d he died. He was buried in St. Pauls Cathe- dral, close by the tomb of his fellow- townsman, Sir Christopher Wren, the architect of the great church, where his statue by Flaxman now occupies a con- spicuous place. Never was a funeral of ceremony attended with so much sincere concern by all sorts of people, writes Edmund Burke; and he adds: Sir Joshua Reynolds was, on many accounts, one of the most memorable men of his time. He was the first Englishman who added the praise of the elegant arts to the other glories of his country. In taste, in grace, in facility, in happy invention, and in the richness and harmony of coloring, he was the equal of the greatest masters of the renowned ages. In portraits he went beyond them. In these he ap- peared not to be raised upon that plat- form, but to descend upon it from a higher sphere. This is lofty praise; but notwith- standing the stately periods of Burke the best summary of Sir Joshuas char- acter and genius seems to be the fa- cetious mock-epitaph which in a merry hour, years before the death of either, his dear friend Goldsmith wrote upon him: Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind, His pencil was striking resistless, and grand; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; Still born to improve us in every part His pencil our faces, his manners our heart: To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing When they talked of their Raphaels, Correg- gios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff! As the train recedes from such cities as Cologne or Strassburg or Amiens, the observant passenger will have no- ticed that while the ordinary buildings of the city gradually sink down to a dim and inconspicuous level, the great cathedral looms up vaster and grander, until at last it seems to stand alone in its dignity and glory. It is so with some human lives; and it is so with the memory of Sir Joshua Reynolds. THE PLACE OF THE EXODUS IN THE HISTORY OF EGYPT. By A. L. Lewis. HEN the hiero- glyphic inscriptions and papyri of Egypt began to give up their long - guarded secrets to the zeal- ous investigators of the nineteenth cen- tury, the first thought that occurred to the majority of those who watched the progress of their decipherment was that they were at last about to learn from the old Egyptians themselves their ver- sion of the history of Joseph, and of Moses, and of all the wonderful events which took place during the stay of the children of Israel in Egypt, and which accompanied their departure from it. The expectation was a natural -one, but never perhaps was a natural expectation more signally disappointed, for although many attempts have been made to find in various inscriptions some possible reference to the Israelites, and for that purpose even to supply characters which tannot be proved to exist in the origi- nals, it is not too much to say that the monuments and papyri of Egypt, so far as at present explored, are absolutely silent about the history of the Israelites while in Egypt and about the manner in which they left ft. A little reflection will show us that this silence is not so surprising as it at first appears. To the Israelites their exodus from Egypt was the beginning of their existence as an independent na- tion, an event to be commemorated and remembered in every detail, perhaps occasionally exaggerated; and we, who have derived our first impressions of it from their accounts, have assumed that it must have been equally important to the Egyptians, to whom in reality it was but one of a long series of struggles with more or less barbaric intruders. The relative importance accorded in the his- tories of England and of the United States to the American war of indepen dence may serve as an explanation of the absence of any Egyptian account of the birth of the Hebrew nation; many an English boy has gone through his school course without learning anything about that great struggle, a thing which could not possibly happen to any American boy, and the position of the Israelite and the Egyptian were in this respect probably not unlike that of the American and the Englishman. In any endeavor, therefore, to ascertain the place of the exodus in the history of Egypt we are compelled, both by the silence of the Egyptians and by the probability that, apart from any question of inspiration, the Israelites would be the best authori- ties as to their own history, to accept the Hebrew accounts as a whole, and to endeavor to find that part of Egyptian history into which they will most easily fit. The natural result of this condition of things is that at least half a dozen dif- ferent kings have been fixed upon by as many different authors as the Pharaoh of the exodus, the most generally ac- cepted theory being that Rameses the Second (commonly called the Great) was the Pharaoh of the oppression, and that his son and successor, Menepthah or Mer-en-ptah, was the Pharaoh of the exodus. Except in one particular this view is as destitute of any evidence to support it as are all the others ; the point in question is, that we are told that the Israelites built for Pharaoh treasure cities, Pithom and Raamses, and, as the foundation of these cities has been attributed to IRame~es the Sec- ond, it has been regarded as a neces- sary consequence that he was the op- pressor. It is, however, possible that both places existed before his time, al- though much building was done in them during his reign, and it is also possible that the names of these towns, coming as they do at the end of a sentence, may have been in the first place merely a

THE PLACE OF THE EXODUS IN THE HISTORY OF EGYPT. By A. L. Lewis. HEN the hiero- glyphic inscriptions and papyri of Egypt began to give up their long - guarded secrets to the zeal- ous investigators of the nineteenth cen- tury, the first thought that occurred to the majority of those who watched the progress of their decipherment was that they were at last about to learn from the old Egyptians themselves their ver- sion of the history of Joseph, and of Moses, and of all the wonderful events which took place during the stay of the children of Israel in Egypt, and which accompanied their departure from it. The expectation was a natural -one, but never perhaps was a natural expectation more signally disappointed, for although many attempts have been made to find in various inscriptions some possible reference to the Israelites, and for that purpose even to supply characters which tannot be proved to exist in the origi- nals, it is not too much to say that the monuments and papyri of Egypt, so far as at present explored, are absolutely silent about the history of the Israelites while in Egypt and about the manner in which they left ft. A little reflection will show us that this silence is not so surprising as it at first appears. To the Israelites their exodus from Egypt was the beginning of their existence as an independent na- tion, an event to be commemorated and remembered in every detail, perhaps occasionally exaggerated; and we, who have derived our first impressions of it from their accounts, have assumed that it must have been equally important to the Egyptians, to whom in reality it was but one of a long series of struggles with more or less barbaric intruders. The relative importance accorded in the his- tories of England and of the United States to the American war of indepen dence may serve as an explanation of the absence of any Egyptian account of the birth of the Hebrew nation; many an English boy has gone through his school course without learning anything about that great struggle, a thing which could not possibly happen to any American boy, and the position of the Israelite and the Egyptian were in this respect probably not unlike that of the American and the Englishman. In any endeavor, therefore, to ascertain the place of the exodus in the history of Egypt we are compelled, both by the silence of the Egyptians and by the probability that, apart from any question of inspiration, the Israelites would be the best authori- ties as to their own history, to accept the Hebrew accounts as a whole, and to endeavor to find that part of Egyptian history into which they will most easily fit. The natural result of this condition of things is that at least half a dozen dif- ferent kings have been fixed upon by as many different authors as the Pharaoh of the exodus, the most generally ac- cepted theory being that Rameses the Second (commonly called the Great) was the Pharaoh of the oppression, and that his son and successor, Menepthah or Mer-en-ptah, was the Pharaoh of the exodus. Except in one particular this view is as destitute of any evidence to support it as are all the others ; the point in question is, that we are told that the Israelites built for Pharaoh treasure cities, Pithom and Raamses, and, as the foundation of these cities has been attributed to IRame~es the Sec- ond, it has been regarded as a neces- sary consequence that he was the op- pressor. It is, however, possible that both places existed before his time, al- though much building was done in them during his reign, and it is also possible that the names of these towns, coming as they do at the end of a sentence, may have been in the first place merely a 110 THE PLACE OF THE EXODUS IN THE HISTORY OF EGYPT. conjectural marginal note, which was afterward embodied in the text itself; and it must be observed in support of this view that Josephus does not claim these cities as works of the Israelites. Lepsius and others who believed that Hameses the Second was the oppressor, claimed also to be supported by a story about an insurrection of certain lepers and others, which was said to be ex- tracted from the history of Egypt writ- ten by Manetho, a history which, with the exception of its lists of dynasties and kings, has, unfortunately, been al- most entirely lost. The leper story has been preserved in the controversy of Josephus against Apion, but it has evidently been so much distorted that nothing can be founded upon it, and Josephus very rightly refused to recog- nize in it any reference to the exodus; though, on the other hand, he was cer- tainly wrong in identifying the Hyksos, who were driven out by the first king of the eighteenth dynasty, with his own nation. Much has also been said of late about the discovery at Pithom of bricks made without straw and stamped with the name of Rameses the Second, but, as the bricks without straw belonged not to the oppressor but to the exodus king, these bricks, to be of any value as ~a confirmation of the current theory, should rather be stamped with the name of his son Mer-en-ptah. As those who consider that Thothmes the Third was king during both the oppression and the exodus have found strawless bricks stamped with his name at Heliopolis, it would seem probable that jerry-build- ing~ was more common among the Egyptians than the excellence of so much of their work might have led us to expect, and, as a matter of fact, the careful researches of Mr. Flinders Pc- trie have unearthed numerous little frauds perpetrated four thousand years ago by various Egyptian artificers. Further, it does not appear that bricks without straw were accepted from the Israelites, but that they had to go into the fields to root up the long stubble left in reaping with the flint-edged sickle of the period, instead of having straw supplied to them, and that this was the extra labor laid upon them. Those who seek support for their views from the strawless bricks are, therefore, themselves making bricks with very lit- tle straw in them. Although the monuments and papyri giye us no direct information upon the subject of the exodus, they do indirectly indicate a certain period within which it must have taken place. Thothmes the Third, who was the most powerful king of that dynasty (the eighteenth) which finally drove the Hyksos invaders out of Egypt and reunited the whole country under one sceptre, extended his conquests as far as Mesopotamia, overrunning Palestine on his way; he left lists of the conquered nations, but does not mention the Israelites among them. Rameses the Second, of the nine- teenth dynasty, the supposed oppressor, who reigned about two hundred years later, also subdued Palestine and left lists of the conquered peoples, but he, again, does not mention the Israelites among them. What is, perhaps, still more important, is that while the Isra- elites have left records of invasions by Mesopotamians, Moabites, Canaanites, Midianites, and Philistines, they do not mention any invasion by the Egyptians, and the conclusion is that the Israelites were not settled on the west side of the Jordan till after the wars raged by IRameses the Second at the commence- ment of his reign, which began not ear- lier than 1388 B.c., or, as some now say, 1266 B.C. It has been attempted to ex- plain this difficulty away by suggesting that Rameses the Second kept close to the sea-coast on his march through Pal- estine and did not strike inland till he was some distance to the north of the Israelites, but it is inconceivable that he should not have secured his long line of communications by establishing posts so far inland that they must have been brought into contact with the Hebrews if the latter had at that time been set- tled in their own country. The earliest date, therefore, at which the Egyptian history will permit the exodus to have taken place, even when full allowance is made for the time spent by the Jews in the wilderness and in conquering Palestine, would seem to be about 1430 B.c., while, if the shorter chronology be adopted, it could not THE PLACE OF THE EXODUS IN THE HISTORY OF EGYPT. 111 have been much earlier than 1300 B.C. but if, in accordance with the generally received idea, we place the exodus in the reign of Mer-en-ptah, the limits be- tween which it must have happened vary, according to the system of chronol- ogy adopted, from about 1310 to 1190 B.C., or from 386 to 228 years before the conquest of Jerusalem by Shishak, the first king of the twenty-second dynasty, which some writers place as late as 924 B.C. and others as early as 962 B.C. On the other hand, we have, both in the Bible and in the works of Josephus, a circumstantial account of the various events of Jewish history, beginning with the exodus and going on through the governments of the Judges and the op- pressions and invasions which occurred between them to the reigns of Saul, David, Solomon, and Rehoboam, in whose fifth year Jerusalem was taken, as I have already mentioned, by the Egyptians under Shishak. A number of years is assigned to nearly every one of these events, and when added together their total amounts to more than 700 years to the fifth year of Behoboam, or about 660 to the building of the temple; but in the book of Kings these 660 years are reduced to 480, while Josephus puts them at 592, which is about the time the summary of Jewish history given by St. Paul in Acts xiii. would allow. We find, then, that the Hebrew author- ities assign to the period between the exodus and the invasion of Shishak not less than 500, and it may be more than 700 years, whereas the Egyptian history does not allow more than from 340 to 500 years to have passed between the two events, and the question arises how we are to reconcile the two ac- counts. There are assigned to no less than eleven of the events between the exodus and Shishak, the duration of which is mentioned in the Bible, periods of forty years, eighty years, or twenty years, and it is generally admitted that the term forty years, when used in the Old Tes ~ tament, may mean not necessarily forty ~ years, but an unknown period of con- siderable length. The large number of forty-year periods found among those mentioned between the exodus and Shi- shak tends to show that some at least of them are not exact, and the smaller and varying totals given by the writer of the book of Kings, and by St. Paul, as well as by Josephus, show that a reduc- tion of some of these periods is permis- sible. Still, compression has its limits, and if it be difficult to compress the wanderings in the wilderness, the con- quest of the promised land, the govern- ments of the Judges, the various oppres- sions which occurred between them, and the reigns of the first three kings of Israel into 386 years, it is absolutely im- possible to compress them into 228 years; so that if it should be found that the reign of Rameses the Second must be postponed to 12661200 B.C., as those say who reckon by Sirius, the current idea that he was the oppressor, and that his successor was the Pharaoh of the exodus, would have to be abandoned without regard to any damage to exist- ing theories or to the position of their supporters. Perhaps it is on this account that many Egyptologists prefer to consider Thothmes the Third, who reigned about 200 years before Rameses the Second, as the king, both of the oppression and of the exodus, wherein they are clearly in opposition to the Hebrew writers, who unanimously declare these to have been two different kings. It appears to me that those who adopt this view would do better to assume Thothmes to have been the oppressor, and his successor Amenhotep (sometimes called Amunoph or Amenophis) the Second to have been the Pharaoh of the exodus, for the latter was succeeded by his brother, Thothmes the Fourth, who from one of his inscriptions would not seem to have had in his earlier years any expectation of attaining the throne. There is, moreover, no evidence in favor of the Thothmes theory, except certain chronological speculations, which, how- ever learned and abstruse, rest on very slender and unstable foundations, and cannot outweigh the consideration al- ready mentioned, that if the Israel- ites left Egypt either in the reign of Thothmes the Third or of his successor, Amenhotep the Second, they must have been in Palestine when IRameses the Sec- ond invaded it, and that neither he nor they record the presence of the other. 112 TI-IE PLACE OF THE EXODUS IN THE HISTORY OF EGYPT. But where, within the possible limits of time as all7eady indicated, is the most probable place for the exodus? Let us first look at the Jewish accounts of the events which led up to it, after that at the history of Egypt within those limits, and then try to fit them both together. Taking the accounts given l)y the Bible and by Josephus as a whole, we find Egypt at the birth of Moses under the government of a tyrannical and su- perstitious, if not weak and vacillating, monarch, who was moved, on the one hand, by fear of the growing numbers of the Israelites, and by the prophecy of a priest regarding the approaching birth of their deliverer, to decree the destruc- tion of every male infant of the obnoxious race ; but who was induced, on the other hand, by his daughter not only to spare the very child whom above all others he had sought to kill, but to allow him to be brought up as his own successor, and we find the other Egyptians, and even their priests, with full knowledge of the circumstances, reluctantly accepting Moses as the heir to the throne, because, as Josephus says, there was no one, either akin or adopted, that had any oracle on his side for pretending to the crown of Egypt, or, in other words, be- cause the royal family was dying out, and there was no one else whom circum- stances seemed to point out as a suitable successor to the throne. Then we have the accounts of the subjugation of the country by the Ethiopians, and of its deliverance by Moses; of the plots and intrigues against him by the priestly party, who suspected, as Josephus says, that he would bring innovations into Egypt, and of the success with which his military achievements enabled them to work upon the fears of the king; of the ultimate determination of the mon- arch to have Moses killed, and of the flight of the latter to Midian after an abortive attempt to rally his own race to his support before the appointed time. Now, of all periods of Egyptian his- tory the reigns of Thothmes the Third and Rameses the Second, one or other of which is usually selected as the era of the oppression, least resemble that depicted above from the Hebrew writers. Those two kings were the greatest and most powerful who ever reigned upon the banks of the Nile; both were brave soldiers and more un- likely to be swayed by fear of the Israel- ites or by excessive belief in the sooth- sayers than any of their numerous predecessors or successors; there does not seem to have been any great Ethi- opian invasion in the reign of either of them; and, what is perhaps conclusive, both had sufficiently large families to make the succession to the throne se- cure, and both were, as a matter of fact, succeeded by their own sons; nor is there the least likelihood, notwithstand- ing the possibility that the succession dejure went by the daughter rather than by the son, that either of these kings would have allowed a daughter to bring up a foundling of a despised race as his heir and successor. Is there, then, any part of the history of Egypt which tames better with the state of things depicted by the Hebrew writers? Let us see. Thothmes the Third was, as I have al- ready said, succeeded by his son Amen- hotep the Second, who was succeeded by his brother Thothmes the Fourth, and he by his son Amenhotep the Third, who married Tii or Tia, generally believed to have been a Semitic princess,* and to have brought with her the seeds of trouble in the matter of religion, since their son, Amenhotep the Fourth, re- nounced the Egyptian form of sun-wor- ship, that of Amen, and adopted a more Semitic form, that of the Aten or disk of the sun; he even erased the name of Amen from the temples and other monu- ments, and dropped it out of his own name, and called himself Khuenaten. Khuenaten built a new capital, called Khut-aten and Pa-aten-her, at the place now known as Tel-el-amarna, for the more convenient exercise of his new re- ligion. He left no sons, but was suc- ceeded by three of his numerous daugh- ters and their respective hasbands: Saanecht (Ra-saa-kha-kheper), husband of Men Aten; Tutanch Amen, husband of Anchnes Amen; Ai, husband of Tia. The monuments and inscriptions of these kings suffered considerably after Some are inclined to think, on the contrary, that Tia was a danghter of Thothmes. The intermarriage of hrothers and sisters of the royal family continued to the time of cleopatra and was, perhaps, a survival of descent hy the female rather than the male. THE PLACE OF THE EXODUS IN THE HISTORY OF EGYPT. 113 the restoration of the worship of Amen, so their history is somewhat obscure; but there were many wars both on the north and on the south of Egypt during their reigns, and the great Asiatic con- quests of Thothmes the Third were evi- dently lost in their time, if not before. Al, the last of these three kings, had been fan-bearer, royal scribe, and master of horse to Khuenaten, but neither he nor his predecessors seem to have left any children, and his successor, Heru-em- Heb, or Horemhebi, appears to have been chosen by him as crown prince after some kind of contest. The wife of Horemhebi probably belonged to the royal family, but it is not clear that he himself did. He restored the worship of Amen, and more monumental remains have been left by him than by his three predecessors ; one statue in the British Museum represents him iu company with and under the protection of a larger figure of the god Khem or Amsi, a form of Amen-ra; and another represents him alone, while at Turin there is a group rep- resenting him and his queen Netem-mut. Although there was much fighting going on during his reign he seems to have been prosperous on the whole, but he was the last king of the eighteenth dy- nasty. iRameses the First, a successful military officer, founded the nineteenth dynasty after the death, or, as Dr. Birch thought, the deposition, of Horemhebi; and although he reigned only two years, he was able to leave the kingdom to his son Seti the First, a great king, and the father of the still greater Rameses the Second, who extended the borders of the empire almost as far as his predecessor, Thothmes the Third, had done, and who has generally, but, as I think, wrongly, been considered to have been the op- pressor of the Israelites.* Now, we have in the reigns of Khu- enaten and of his sons-in-law a much more likely place for the events narrated by the Hebrew writers than any other. Whether Khuenaten were Amenhotep the Fourth under another name, or whether he were, as some say, a succes ~ * florembebi is often confounded with the Horns of Manetho, but this is a mistake; the Horus of Manetho was Khuenaten, after whom follow three or four other sovereigns (the daughters- and sons-in-law of Khuenaten), and then Annals or Harmais, by whom Manetho intends Horemhebi. VOL. XV.12 sor to that king, we have in him a sov- ereign harassed by revolt abroad and by disaffectionthe result of his own actionsat home, and likely, therefore, to be a prey to all manner of fears; greatly concerned with religious mat- ters, and no doubt ready to listen to prophecies, and to act upon them; hav- ing no sons, and, although some of his daughters were married, having no grandchildren, so that the succession to the throne was falling into the condi- tion described by Josephus; executing such great public works that Osburn says it is evident that he and his succes- sors had much forced labor at their command. In a word, we have in Khu- enaten just the man for the oppressor. Nor are we without a clue to the identity of Pharaohs daughter. That princess is called by Josephus Thermuthis, while another legend states that Merris, daughter of Palmanothes, and wife of Chenephres, king of Upper Egypt, adopted a little son of the He- brews, as she herself was barren. Two of those daughters of Khuenaten who succeeded him were Men Aten and Tia. Men Aten might obviously be tile orig- inal of Merris, and as she was princess first and queen afterward, the appar- ent discrepancy between the accounts becomes rather a confirmation than otherwise. Tia, who, with her husband Ai, was the last of Khuenatens family who sat on the throne, might well be the Thermuthis of Josephus, for the syllable mut or mother, which is fre- quently added to the names of Egyp- tian princesses, and might have been as- sumed by Tia on the adoption of Moses, would convert Tia into Tia-mut, which is as much like Thermuthis as any name that has been found. The Greeks, in- deed, seem to have been in the habit of adding s to foreign names. Herodotus (Clio cxxxix.) says that all the Persian names ended in s, but that the Persians themselves were not aware of that fact; nor is their ignorance very surprising, since, from a comparison of the cunei- form and hieroglyphic inscriptions, Xerxes, Darius, and Cambyses appear to have been in their original form Ksharsha, Ntaryusha, and Kenbuta, and not to have ended in s at all. Although the Hebrew accounts speak of only one 114 THE PLACE OF THE EXODUS IN THE HISTORY OF EGYPT. daughter of Pharaoh, little difficulty will, I imagine, be felt in admitting that two may have been concerned in the bringing up of Moses, though perhaps only one in his preservation. Some writers indeed say that Tia the wife of Ai was not the daughter of Khuenaten, but his nurse, and this, if true, would leave to Men Aten the sole honor of being that daughter of Pharaoh who has for so many ages excited so much interest. In that case it might be as- sumed that Tia-mut, or Tia the nurse, had also been a friend and patroness of Moses, and that Josephus had thus been led into the mistake of giving her name as that of the princess. During the reigns of the sons-in-law of Khuenaten there were many campaigns both in the north and in the south, in some of which Moses might have fought with success and distinction, and with the result, not uncommon in absolute monarchies, that the jealousy of the king was excited against him by the priestly party which had been hostile to him from his birth, and that Horemhebi was chosen by Ai as his successor in place of Moses, who thereupon found it necessary to leave the country. The inscription of Horemhebi, now at Turin, as translated by Dr. :Birch, al- though much damaged, clearly intimates that he was chosen by the reigning king as his successor in opposition to someone else: (Line 6 where legible) his reign in face of the king, at rest in his property, rejoicing in his election, he placed him at the gate of the country to conduct the numerous laws of the country as Prince, Heir-apparent of this town like him, one alone without a second, the plans (breakthen line 7 where legi- ble) of men which came out of his mouth addressed before the Prince of the palace, he went along to the opposi- tion against him; he answered the King, that which came out of his mouth daily pleased him, the gracious one.~ It would, therefore, seem that, while Moses may have been supported by the disk-worshippers and Semites, Horem- hebi was supported by the priests of Amen and the native party generally, and that they, fearing, as Josephus says, further innovations, made use of the successes of Moses to bring about his disgrace with the king and the choice of Horemhebi in his place. The latter part of the same inscrip- tion describes the coronation of Horem- hebi and his restoration of the old worship and temples, and the satisfac- tion of the gods at his conduct. Ho- remhebi did in fact restore the worship of Amen, and caused his name to be recut in the inscriptions from which Khuenaten had had it erased; the names of the disk-worshippers were in their turn erased, and their works de- stroyed, and the new city built under Khuenaten by, as I suppose, the labor of the Israelites, was deserted and ru- ined, so that, when their descendants in later years sought to identify the works of their forefathers, it was forgotten, and Pithom and Ilameses were put down conjecturally by some, and the pyramids (which were built before Abraham was born) by others, as the result of those labors. Horemhebi reigned at least twenty- one years, and was succeeded by Illameses the First, the founder of the nineteenth dynasty, whom I consider to have been the Pharaoh of the exodus, since Jo- sephus expressly says that that mon- arch had only just received the govern- ment when Moses returned to Egypt. It is not unlikely that Moses and he might have fought side by side in pre- vious years, but if Moses entertained any hopes of favor on that account, they were certainly very soon dissipated. Rameses reigned about two years, and that his death was unexpected by him- self, if not actually sudden, is shown by the state of his tomb, which, according to Osburn, was intended to be large and magnificent, but was only just begun, the sarcophagus even being unfinished, and the name of IRameses roughly scrawled upon it. It is not stated in the book of Exodus that the Pharaoh himself perished with his army, though Psalm 136 shows that the general belief among the Jews was that he did so, and the apparently unexpected death of Rameses the First, as shown by the un- finished condition of his tomb, would also tend to favor that idea. But for the statement of Josephus that the Pharaoh of the exodus had only just received the THE PLACE OF THE EXODUS IN THE HISTORY OF EGYPT. 115 government I might not be indisposed to place that event at the end of Horemhebis reign, as there seem to 4 have been troubles on the northern frontier of Egypt during his life, and some uncertainty exists about his death, but, on the whole, Rameses the First seems to answer the requirements of the Hebrew accounts better. Neither the tomb nor the mummy of Horemhebi have yet been identified, but they may be discovered at some future time. Rameses the First was succeeded by his son Seti the First, who is said in the lists of kings handed down from the otherwise lost history of Manetho to have reigned fifty years, but as his son and successor, iRameses the Second, cer- tainly reigned sixty-six years, it is hard- ly possible that he could have reigned so long; and as, in addition to this, the large buildings begun by him were finished not by him, but by Bameses the Second, and as the latest of his years re- corded on the monuments is the ninth, it is generally believed that his reign was not a very long one. The reign of Seti and the first years of that of Rameses the Second were largely oc- cupied by wars against the Hittites and other Asiatics, episodes in which are not only depicted on their buildings, but have formed the subject of the cele- brated poem by Pentaur. If the Israel- ites left Egypt at the end of the reign of Rameses the First they would have been in the wilderness and on the eastern side of the Jordan while Rameses the Second was fighting in Palestine; con- sequently they would not have en- countered or been encountered by the Egyptians, and one of the great difficul- ties mentioned at the commencement of this article is thus avoided. The facility with which the Israelites conquered the promised land is also explained, inas- much as the power of the Canaanites had been broken for them by Rameses the Second. In Exodus xxiii. 28 a promise was made to the IsraelitesI will send hornets before thee which shall drive out the Hivite, the Canaanite, and 4~ the Hittite from before thee, and from the parting address of Joshua to the Israelites (Joshua xxiv. 12) it would appear that this promise had been ful- filled, for Joshua, speaking in the name of Jehovah, said: I sent the hornet before you, which drove them out from before youthe two kings of the Amo- ritesnot with thy sword nor with thy bow. The hornet appears above the cartouche which contains the throne name of every Egyptian king, and is the determining sign of his rank, and it has, therefore, been thought, with some prob- ability, that by the hornets which at- tacked the Canaanites are intended not insects, but Egyptian kings, but whether this be so or not, if the most lasting re- sult of the great wars of IRameses the Second were the easy installation of the despised and persecuted Israelites in the promised land, it gives us indeed a mar- vellous illustration of the mysterious ways of Providence. But now it may occur to some of my readers that while the Hebrew writers only mention one oppressor, succeeded immediately by the Pharaoh of the exodus, I have produced a line of five oppressors, namely, Khuenaten, his three sons-in-law, and Horemhebi, and that the reign of the latter did not extend over forty years, which is the period usually assigned for the stay of Moses in Midian. My answer is, that if Moses were forty years old when he left Egypt, and eighty years old when he returned to it, and if the king in whose reign he was born did not die till just before his return, that king must have reigned more than eighty years, and could not have been less than one hun- dred and twenty years old when he died, since he must have been old enough to be Mosess grandfather, and that no such king existed; and that, al- though the Bible only mentions two kings, it does not say that there were no others. The remarks made in an earlier part of this article respecting the forty- year periods between the exodus and Shishak apply equally to the division of the life of Moses into three forty-year periods, and it is certain that we must either give up that division or admit that more than two Pharaohs reigned between the birth of Moses and the exodus. If one of these courses be a necessity neither is inadmissible, and I take both; and I think the account of the circumcision of Mosess son by his mother while on the way back to Egypt 116 THE PLACE OF THE EXODUS IN THE HISTORY OF EGYPT. tends to show that the son was at most a youth, and that the stay of Moses in Midian had, therefore, been much less than forty years. The exact, or even the approximate, date of the exodus cannot be deter- mined until the differences between long and short chronologies have been finally settled. If the reign of Bame- ses the Second began, as is generally thought, in 1388 n.c., the exodus would, on my hypothesis, have occurred about 1420 n.c., which would allow from 450 to 500 years for the Jewish history be- tween it and Behoboam; but if, as is not improbable, the accession of Bameses the Second did not take place till 1266 s.c., the exodus would, on my theory, have occurred between 1320 n.c. and 1300 B.C., according to the length of the reign of Seti the First, and this would allow nearly four hundred years for the events between it and the siege of Jerusalem by Shishak. The question which lies at the root of these differences is the difficulty of deciding in what reign certain festivals were celebrated which were fixed upon an astronomical basis. In consequence of the ordinary Egyptian year having only 365 days and not admitting an in- tercalary day every fourth year, its first day coincided with the first appearance at Memphis of Sirius, or Sothis, as the morning star only once in 1,460 years. One of these coincidences is known to have taken place under the government of the Roman emperors, and the one before it is calculated to have occurred in 1322 n.c., and is known to have been celebrated nuder a king from whom the Oreek astronomers called it the era of Menophres or Menepthes. But who was this king Menophres? It has gen- erally been assumed that he was Mer- en-ptah, the son of Rameses the Second, and was the Pharaoh of the exodus, which on this same ground is commonly supposed to have occurred about 1314 n.c.; but others say that Menophres was Men-pe-hu-ra, or Ba Men Pehu, which was the throne nanie of Ilameses the First, who was the great grand- father of Mer-en-ptah, and the king whom I have selected as the Pharaoh of the exodus. Other astronomical data are afforded by the lunar cycles of twenty-five years, by which it is shown that certain festivals mentioned in the inscriptions as having been celebrated in certain reigns, must have occurred within a range of about seven years; but as these seven-year periods came round every twenty-five years, it has not yet been found possible to fix with certainty any date from them, although many attempts have been made in that direction. Nor can any more certain date be obtained from the historical than from the astronomical facts which are as yet in our possession. Although the order of the dynasties and the succession of the kings are found to be generally in agreement with the lists of Manetho, opinions vary as to whether some of the dynasties reigned over the whole kingdom, or only over a part of it contemporaneously with other dynasties reigning over other parts; nor do we know the lengths of all the reigns, nor to what extent one reign ran into another by means of the association of a son with his father. Thus, between Shishak, who was the first king of the twenty-second dynasty, and the nine- teenth dynasty, which Rameses the First founded, but concerning the end of which there is some little obscurity, there were the twentieth and twenty- first dynasties. It might be thought that the addition of the regnal years of the kings composing those dynasties would show the time when the nine- teenth dynasty began, but we do not know the lengths of all the reigns of those kings, and we are also met by the question whether, and if so, hQw far, the twenty-first dynasty was contem- porary with the twentieth and twenty- second dynasties. The attacks of the Philistines on the Israelites are not noticed till the latter part of the gov- ernments of the Judges. During the earlier years of the Jews in the prom- ised land the Philistines were kept un- der by Ilameses the Third, the second king of the twentieth Egyptian dynasty, and his immediate successors, and the oppressors of the Hebrews came from other quarters; but the uncertainty as to the number of years to be assigned to Samson, Eli, Samuel, and Saul ren- ders this indication of little value in fixing a date. I shall, therefore, not at- THE PLACE OF THE EXODUS IN THE HISTORY OF EGYPT. 117 tempt to decide the question between the long and the short chronologies, nor do I consider that my views as to the 4 place of the exodus would be affected by the victory of either. That one or other will be established sooner or later is most probable, for an inscription or papyrus may be discovered at any time, which will settle the matter beyond dispute. An inscription or papyrus may also yet be discovered which will give us that certainty with regard to the kings of the oppression and the exodus which can- not be obtained from the materials now at our command. It may be that if any such discovery be made I maybe proved to be wrong in fixing upon Khuenaten and his successors as the oppressors and upon Rameses the First as the king of the exodus, but it is at least as likely that I may be proved to be right, and until the contrary be shown, I hold that the theory I have brought forward must be admitted to be more probable than any other and for the following reasons: Whatever system of chronology may be adopted my hypothesis allows at least a century more than is allowed by the theory that Mer-en-ptah was the Pharaoh of the exodus, and this century is, as we have seen, much needed, if not abso- lutely indispensable, to satisfy the re- quirements of the Jewish historians. While it gives this extra century where it is so much wanted, my theory avoids the difficulty besetting those who hold that Thothmes the Third, or some earlier king, was the Pharaoh of the exodus, namely, that in that case the Israelites must have been in Palestine when Ha- meses the Second invaded it, but that neither do the Israelites mention the Egyptians nor they the Israelites. Further, the view here advocated shows how Josephus may have been per- fectly accurate in describing that uncer- tain condition of the succession to the Egyptian throne which alone could have rendered possible the adoption of Moses as crown prince, and it identifies the princess or princesses who adopted him; and, finally, while removing so many of 4 the difficulties which surround other theories it raises up no fresh ones. Since the above article was corrected for the press, Dr. Flinders Petrie has returned to England from his explora- tion of Tel-el-Amarna, the site of the capital of Khuenaten. What he has found there will be described by him in due time, and will be of great interest; but it does not appear that he has made any discovery which in any way affects the views respecting the exodus set forth in the foregoing pages. The reign of Khuenaten, which is said by Manetho to have lasted thirty- seven years, is almost certainly limited, by Dr. Petries investigations, to seven- teen years; but the reigns of his three successors appear, from the number of objects found bearing their names, to have lasted for some time after his death, to have followed each other in the order usually assigned to them, and not to have been, as some recent writers have suggested, contemporary co-regencies; although it is possible that the first of them may have been associated in the government with Khuenaten during that kings later years. The architecture and decoration of the palace of Khuenaten (in which, if my suggestions be correct, the youth of Moses was spent) are found to be in some points superior to Egyptian ar- chitecture and design generally, and Dr. Petrie thinks that the origin of some of the architecture and ornamentation of the Temple of Solomon may possibly be found in this palace. The space cov- ered by the palace, the temples, and the city, is about as large as that now cov- ered by Brighton (England). The tomb of Khuenaten had unfor- tanately been discovered and plundered by the Arabs many months before Dr. Petries explorations were begun, but it is probable that the Arabs only found the d~bris left by destroyers in the time of Horemhebi, or a little later ; even this debris has not been thoroughly ex- amined, as the Ghizeh Museum authori- ties, then in power, would neither allow Dr. Petrie to examine it, nor do so them- selves. Khnenatens tomb was plastered, and the designs for the sculpture were cut through the plaster, but only partly carved on the rock. His second daugh- ter, who died in his lifetime, unmarried, was buried in an adjoining chamber, the decoration of which represents him and his courtiers mourning for her. AND HIS GENERAL METHODS OF PREPARATION. By Robert C. Winthrop. IN May, 1877, more than sixteen years ago, I purchased of the late Mrs. Jo- seph Gales, at Washington, the vol- ume which her husband had made up, not less than forty years previously, contain- ing his own short-hand report of Web- sters reply to Hayne in 1830, together with the manuscript copylarge parts of it in Websters own handwritingfrom which the speech was originally printed in the National Intelligencer, of which Mr. Gales was then the editor. The volume was paid for by many others be- sides myself, and was presented through me to the Boston Public Library, where it has since been open to examination. A communication in the Boston Tram- script, dated July 10, 1882, evidently contained the results of a careful and critical investigation of its pages. That communication was published while I was in Europe. Soon after my return home, however, I prepared a brief me- morandum in regard to some missing pages of the volume, and filed it between the fly-leaves, where it will still be found. I have nothing to add or alter as to the missing pages, but the facts which the Transcript communication stated, in reference to the original pub- lication of the speech, led me to recall all that I had ever known or heard on the subject. I took occasion soon after- ward to put upon paper the following account of Websters methodsif, in- deed, he had any methodsin the preparation and publication of some of his most remarkable efforts, and par- ticularly of this reply to Haynethe most important and remarkable effort of his life. The account bears date January, 1883, and was thus written more than ten years ago. It was written without any definite purpose of publication, and was laid away for future consideration. Several persons among whom I may mention my lamented friend the late Chief - Justice Waite, to whom I had communicated some of these reminis- cences in familiar after-dinner conversa- tionhave repeatedly urged me to pub- lish them, and I have more than once been on the point of doing so. But some contentions on the subject, into which I was indisposed to be drawn, de- terred me, and I have only consented to do so now that it may almost claim the immunity of a posthumous publication. Websters reply to Hayne was made in the Senate of the United States on January 26 and 27, 1830, occupying many hours of two successive days. It first appeared in print in the Na- tional Intelligencer, in three successive parts, on February 23d, 25th, and 27th. Nearly or quite a month thus inter- vened between the delivery and the publication of the speech. I was a law- student in Websters office in Boston at that time, and I remember well the public and private impatience, I might almost call it vexation, at this long de- lay. There were no telegraphs or rail- roads at that period. The communica- tion between Boston and Washington was slow, the mails taking two or three days. There were no professional let- ter-writers, or, certainly, no organized corps of reporters, at Washington then, as there are now. But the fact that a triumphant defence of the Constitution and of New England had been made by WEBSTERS REPLY TO HAYNE,

AND HIS GENERAL METHODS OF PREPARATION. By Robert C. Winthrop. IN May, 1877, more than sixteen years ago, I purchased of the late Mrs. Jo- seph Gales, at Washington, the vol- ume which her husband had made up, not less than forty years previously, contain- ing his own short-hand report of Web- sters reply to Hayne in 1830, together with the manuscript copylarge parts of it in Websters own handwritingfrom which the speech was originally printed in the National Intelligencer, of which Mr. Gales was then the editor. The volume was paid for by many others be- sides myself, and was presented through me to the Boston Public Library, where it has since been open to examination. A communication in the Boston Tram- script, dated July 10, 1882, evidently contained the results of a careful and critical investigation of its pages. That communication was published while I was in Europe. Soon after my return home, however, I prepared a brief me- morandum in regard to some missing pages of the volume, and filed it between the fly-leaves, where it will still be found. I have nothing to add or alter as to the missing pages, but the facts which the Transcript communication stated, in reference to the original pub- lication of the speech, led me to recall all that I had ever known or heard on the subject. I took occasion soon after- ward to put upon paper the following account of Websters methodsif, in- deed, he had any methodsin the preparation and publication of some of his most remarkable efforts, and par- ticularly of this reply to Haynethe most important and remarkable effort of his life. The account bears date January, 1883, and was thus written more than ten years ago. It was written without any definite purpose of publication, and was laid away for future consideration. Several persons among whom I may mention my lamented friend the late Chief - Justice Waite, to whom I had communicated some of these reminis- cences in familiar after-dinner conversa- tionhave repeatedly urged me to pub- lish them, and I have more than once been on the point of doing so. But some contentions on the subject, into which I was indisposed to be drawn, de- terred me, and I have only consented to do so now that it may almost claim the immunity of a posthumous publication. Websters reply to Hayne was made in the Senate of the United States on January 26 and 27, 1830, occupying many hours of two successive days. It first appeared in print in the Na- tional Intelligencer, in three successive parts, on February 23d, 25th, and 27th. Nearly or quite a month thus inter- vened between the delivery and the publication of the speech. I was a law- student in Websters office in Boston at that time, and I remember well the public and private impatience, I might almost call it vexation, at this long de- lay. There were no telegraphs or rail- roads at that period. The communica- tion between Boston and Washington was slow, the mails taking two or three days. There were no professional let- ter-writers, or, certainly, no organized corps of reporters, at Washington then, as there are now. But the fact that a triumphant defence of the Constitution and of New England had been made by WEBSTERS REPLY TO HAYNE, 14/PBS TERS REPLY tO HAYNE. Mr. Webster was soon widely circu- lated throughout the country, and some private letters, as well as many of the newspapers, gave glowing accounts of it. Everyone was thus eager to see and read the speech, and everyone was dis- appointed, as day after day they looked in vain for its appearance. The volume of Mr. Gales, now in the Boston Public Library, helps to solve the mystery of this long delay; and the solution is in precise conformity with what I had repeatedly heard from Judge Peleg Sprague, from Governor John Davis, and from others who were asso- ciated with Webster in Congress at the time, and who were never weary of tell- ing the story of this wonderful effort for which, as well as for the transcend- ent abilities of its author, they all had the greatest admiration. Indeed, no one from that day to this has ever questioned, or ever will ques- tion, that on those two days of January, 1830the 26th and 27thWebster made the greatest and most important and successful effort of his life. The speech was magnificent and overpower- ing as delivered, and produced an im- pression on all who heard it never equalled or approached by any other speech delivered in Congress since Fish- er Ames made his marvellous speech on the British Treaty in 1796even if that is to be named in the same category. But Mr. Webster felt, and all his friends felt with him, that something more was to be accomplished than any immediate impression on those who heard him. He felt, and they all felt, that the Constitution of the United States was at stakenot for the mere hour or year of that debate, but for all time and for the whole country. He had been forced or challenged into the discussion at short notice and under embarrassing circumstances. He had mustered all his resources and energies as by magic, and had come off trium- phantly. The air of the whole land was vocal with his praises. But great ex- pectations remained to be met, involv- ing not merely his own fame, but the highest interests of his country. He perceived at a glance that the short- hand report of Mr. Gales, as written out by his wife, however faithfully and lovingly done, could not satisfy the general public expectation. He de- cided that his great argument and ap- peal for the Constitution and the Union must be made as impressive to readers in all time to come as it had been to hearers at the moment, and that for this end it must be carefully revised and written out by himself. Nobody else could do it; and accordingly it was so revised and much of it written outas I have been told by the highest authoritywith his own hand. Some of his friends, who were present at its delivery, were called into consultation on the subject, and parts of the speech, if not the whole, read over to them from time to time, with an occasional question: Is that strong enough? Is that as strong as I put it in the Senate? In the heat and fervor of these readings and consultations, different phrases and forms of expression were adopted or recalled, and quotations introduced; and the whole speech was thus worked over and perfected until it satisfied his friends and himself, and until it as- sumed the shape in which he was will- ing to give it to the press. He was re- solved that no labor should be spared to render it as perfect and as impressive as it was in his power to make it. This is the true history, as I have the best reason for believing, of the months delay in its publication, and of the nu- merous differences which are discov- ered between the speech as reported in short-hand by Mr. Gales, and the speech as we have it in print. That delay and those differences, even if there were no positive testimony, could hardly be ac- counted for in any other way. I remember well that Mr. Gales, proud of his own skill as a short-hand reporter, told me more than once, in showing me this very volume, that he did not think some parts of the speech were improved by all this labor. He alluded particularly to the famous per- oration, which he thought more effective as delivered than as finally printed. He said that Webster had changed it a little in order to avoid a mixed meta- phor, or for some other cause. Mr. Gales would have been the last person in the world to detract a jot or tittle from the surpassing ability and power iiAi 120 WEBSTER S REPLY TO HA YNE. of the speech in reply to Hayne, whether as dehvered in the Senate or as print- ed in the Intelligericer. He had been a hearer of all the important debates in Congress from his youth npward, and was familiar with all the greatest efforts of our American statesmen for half a century. He was a man, too, of re- markable accomplishments, and might have been appealed to as an umpire of the comparative excellence of all that he had heard or read. And he never hesitated to pronounce this speech of Websters as first without a second of all the great speeches of our country. It was his particular pride to have re- ported it. It was his last labor in that line, and he could never be persuaded to nse his pen again, as a short-hand writer, after he had been privileged to report this consummate effort of Websters. I have said that Webster was called on to make this speech at short notice. A single night was, if I remember right, all that he had for immediate prepara- tion for the first days effort, and one other night for that of the second day. He could have made but few notes, and the Brief which has been publisheda very short onemay have been all that he committed to writing. Before going to the Senate Chamber on the morn- ing of the first day he told Mr. Ever- ett that as to the defence of the Con- stitution he had no misgivings, that he was always ready for that; and that his only anxiety was in regard to the personal and sectional parts of Colo- nel Haynes attack. As he entered the Senate Chamber, John M. Clayton, the senator from Delaware, said to him, Webster, are you primed and loaded? Seven fingers, was his only reply, with a gesture as if pointing to a gun- barrel. He spoke under great excite- ment, and with almost an air of inspira- tion. Of his emotions he said himself, not long afterward, I felt as if every- thing I had ever seen or read or heard was floating before me in one grand panorama, and I had little else to do than to reach up and cull a thunder- bolt and hurl it at him. There is little doubt that Webster had contemplated, some years before, that such an occasion would occur, and had considered how he should meet it. At a previous session of Congress a vio- lent attack had been made on New Eng- land, in connection with the tariff and the Constitution, by Colonel Hayne or some other senator, and Webster re- solved at once to reply to it. But a Presidential election was then approach- ing, John Quincy Adams being a can- didate ; and it was feared that a sec- tional controversy in the Senate at that time might impair the chances of Mr. Adamss success. Webster was accord- ingly persuaded to forbear, and to post- pone any reply until another time. It may well be that he pondered the sub- ject deeply in the meantime, and made the Constitution a fresh subject of study. But the occasion came at last unexpectedly, and upon a Resolution which would least be supposed likely to create it. It is, indeed, among the curiosities of parliamentary eloquence, if not of gen- eral literature, that a Resolution, moved by Mr. Samuel A. Foote, a Democratic senator of no great distinction from Connecticut, on the subject of the pub- lic lands and the Surveyor-General and which, I believe, was never disposed of or acted on at allshould have been the ostensible theme of that great de- bate. Webster had made an admirable speech on the Resolution six or seven days before, and might well have been thought to have exhausted the topic, so far as he and the public lands were con- cerned. But that speech had opened him to assault, when it may have been imagined that he had no more ammu- nition. The assault came, and roused him to the supreme effort of his life. The account which I have thus given of the speech as delivered, and of the speech as we now have it in print, re- calls the saying of some great English oratorI believe it was Charles James Foxthat for complete and permanent success in eloquence on a great occasion a man should have two speechesone a speech for delivery, and another a speech for publication. When told that a speech read well, he always replied, Then it was a bad speech. Webster may be said to have fulfilled Foxs idea if it were Foxsin the twofold tri- umph of his reply to Hayne. Upon the WEBSTERS REPLY TO HA YNE. 121 spur of the moment and under the im- pulse of a great exigency, he made a speech which in its power and impres- 4. siveness, as delivered, was unsurpassed, if ever equalled, in Parliamentary or Congressional annals. And then, with the aid of Mr. Galess short-hand notes and of his own memory, and of the memory and counsel of friends who heard it, he prepared the speech for publication in a manner to command the admiration of all who shall read it to the latest generations. Let me not seem to imply that the speech as deliv- ered and the speech as printed were two speeches. They were substantially one and the same. The one great speech was made in the Senate, producing an overwhelming effect. The corrections of the report, and the changes of form or phraseology, by which it was perfect- ed for the press, impair not a whit the unique grandeur of the effort. No such thing could ever happen in these days, because there are now stenographic re- porters who take down every word which falls from the lips of a speaker, just as it falls and just when it falls, and the speech goes into the newspa- pers irrevocably without a days delay. It is a striking coincidence that a similar though much longer interval had once before occurred between the delivery and the formal publication of another of Websters most celebrated efforts. His famous Plymouth oration, which was delivered on December 22, 1820, was not forthcoming in a pam- phlet form, or, I believe, in any form, until the following autumn. Nearly a year, indeed, seems to have elapsed be- fore it was in a condition to be sent to his friends and read by the public. The date of John Adamss note to him, acknowledging a copy of it with so memorable a compliment, was Decem- ber 23, 1821; and that of Chancellor Kent bore date December 29, 1821. I was too young to go to Plymouth in 1820. But though I did not hear that grand discourse, I was in the way of hearing of it, and I well remember the copy which Webster sent to my mother in the autumn or winter of 1821. Of course, as a schoolboy, I could have known nothing of the circum stances which prevented an earlier pub- lication of this oration; nor do I re- member having ever heard any expla- nation of the long delay. But I have conjectures of my own, long ago con- ceived, which I set down here for what they may be worth. The Convention for amending the Constitution of Massachusetts was in session during the autumn and a part of the winter of 182021. I remember climbing up into the gallery and see- ing John Adams on the platform with the President of the Convention. Web- ster was a member of this Convention, and took a leading part in its delibera- tions and debates. One of the sub- jects which he discussed with great power was the Property Basis, as it was called, of the Massachusetts Senate. His reply to Levi Lincoln on this ques- tion was almost as memorable as his reply to Hayne ten years afterward. The whole town rang with the elo- quence of Webster on that occasion. Now, this speech was made on Decem- ber 15, 1820, only one week before the great oration at Plymouth, and a considerable part of the speech was taken up with a discussion of pre- cisely the same topic which formed one of the main staples of the Plymouth oration; namely, Property as the basis of Government. I have always thought that Webster, when he came to prepare the Plymouth oration for the press, found that he had discussed the same question substantially twice over, and that the speech in the Convention~ which was soon published, contained so much of what he afterward said at Plymouth, that he could not do himself justice without a careful revision of the oration, and without allowing a sufficient interval to prevent the two efforts, as originally made, from being the subject of too close a comparison. I have never collated the two produc- tions with a view of finding a corrob- oration of this theory. Indeed, Web- ster, in his revision, would have hardly left room for such a corroboration; but the fact of the long interval be- tween the delivery and publication of the Plymouth oration remains to be ac- counted for in this or some other way. Perhaps his engagements at the bar or 122 WEBSTERS REPLY TO HAYNE. in the forun:i, or the state of his health, may have occasioned the delay. Before turning to some other illus- trations of Websters methods and habits as an orator, I am tempted to mention a somewhat striking circum- stance in connection with his powerful speech (to which I have already al- luded) against changing the Property basis of the Massachusetts Senate. Few triumphs of his were more not- able. But less than twenty years after- ward, while I was sitting in the Speakers chair of the House of Representatives of Massachusetts, Mr. Websters card was brought in to me by the sergeant- at-arms, and he presently appeared personally, and took a seat at my side. He was then a senator in Congress, and had come to pay his respects to the Legislature which had elected him. It happened that Mr. Hinckley, of Barn- stable, a very pronounced Democrat of that day, was making a violent speech against the Property Basis of the Senate, for the change of which an amendment to the Constitution was at that moment pending. Webster, it may be imagined, looked sterner and more solemn than ever, as he was obliged to sit and listen to the same arguments which he was thought to have demolished forever in the Conven- tion of 1820. But the Barustable Democrat was only moved to greater effort by the presence of Webster, and the amendment was actually adopted by a two-thirds vote before he had left the chamber! I turn next to some other illustra- tions of Mr. Websters habits of prepa- ration and publication, which exhibit him in very different aspects. On January 27, 1848, Webster made an argument before the Su- preme Court of the IJuited States on the Rhode Island governmenta case arising out of what has been known as the Dorr Rebellion. It happened that Mr. Justice McLean dined with me on the day after this argument, and in the course of conversation he said to me: Winthrop, your great friend Webster made one of his grandest ef- forts yesterday. I have never heard him when he was more powerfuL I am delighted to hear it, I replied, but I do not quite understand it; for when I saw him the very day before, he had just arrived at Gadsbys Hotel, and seemed wearied and worried, and was evidently in very bad spirits about the argument he was to make the next day. Well, said Judge McLean, he has rarely, if ever, done a greater thing. A day or two afterward I took pains to see Webster again and tell him what McLean had said, and I then added, Do tell me the mystery of such a tri- umph under such discouragements. Oh, sit down here, said Webster, and I will tell you all about it. You remem- ber that you called to see me just after I had arrived from Boston, and you may not have forgotten that I mentioned that I had been up to the Supreme Court, and had found, to my consternation, that the Rhode Island case was in prog- ress, and indeed that the counsel to whom I was to reply was just finishing his argument. Fortunately, only a quar- ter of an hour was left before the courts regular hour of adjournment, and I suc- ceeded in gettitig their Honors, out of regard to my detention by a storm on the road, to adjourn at once, and leave me to begin my reply the next day. Well, on coming back to the hotel here, some pleasant gentlemen persuaded me to dine with them and kept me a good while at the table. When I escaped from them you called, and as you went away Choate came in. He was associ- ated with me in this Rhode Island case, and spent an hour with me, telling me all about the arguments of our opp~- nents, and giving me a full idea of the case as it stood. And when Choate left me I was tired out, and went at once to bed. I could hardly help laughing, as I replied, But all this does not explain the great speech which you made the next morning. No, said Webster, but before I went to sleep I ordered the servant to have a fire kindled in my parlor at two oclock in the morning, and candles lighted on my table. Before half-past two I was at work, and before breakfast I was ready for anybody! That was the preparation for one of Websters great arguments in the Su- preme Court. The argument may be found in his published volumes, and it WEBSTER S REPLY TO HAYNE. 123 justifies all that Judge McLean said of it. The preparation was very much like that for his reply to Hayne, as de- 4 livered. But Webster was now eigh- teen years older, and was within a few years of his death. It must have re- quired no little courage and self-confi- dence in him to seat himself at his ta- ble at half-past two oclock of a cold winter morning, to prepare for such an effort; and the result proves what great things he could accomplish under the spur of necessity, at the shortest notice. The early morning, indeed, was his favorite time for hard work. Some of his most elaborate letters to Lord Ash- burton, at the time of the Ashburton Treaty, were well known to have been written at a heat before breakfast. But I turn to other illustrations of his habits as a speaker. Webster once said to me, not long after I entered Con- gress in 1840: Winthrop, if I were as young as you are, and just beginning my Congressional career, I would adopt a different course from that which we are all pursuing in regard to speeches. I have lost my faith in long, labored efforts, to be printed a week after their delivery, and to be scattered over the country in pamphlets which nobody ever reads. I would speak short and often. I would take some part in every impor- tant discussion, and I would prepare every word which I proposed to say, and write it out beforehand, so as to give a copy to the reporters the moment I sat down. In this way the next mornings paper would let my constituents and the country see and read precisely what I had said. Now, Webster had himself tried this mode of proceeding some years before his advice to me. During the protracted debates on the Removal of the Deposits in 1833 and 1834, he went up to the Senate Chamber morning after morn- ing for several weeks together, with me- morials, petitions, and protests on the subject, which had been sent to him from different parts of the country to 4 be presented to Congress. Each me- morial submitted its own view of the act of the Administration complained of, while the place from which it came sug- gested the peculiar interest which the signers had in the question. Webster was accustomed at this time to prepare short speeches for each memorial, and, after delivering them, to hand them at once to the reporters for the next morn- ings Intelligencer. One morning as he entered the Senate Chamber, with one of these memorials and one of these short speeches, John M. Clayton, the Delaware senator, said to him: Web- ster, you ought to have been here earlier! You do not know what has been going on this morning. Isaac Hill has been making a violent harangue on what he calls the natural hatred of the poor for the rich. Whats that you say ? ex- claimed Webster, the natural hatred of the poor for the rich! Did he say sothose very words? Those very words, replied Clayton; and then Web- ster went to his seat. Soon it came to his turn to present his memorial; and in doing so, after a few words in regard to the place from which it came and the general subject to which it related, he launched out into a most impassioned and indignant rebuke of the attempt which had just been made to misrepre- sent the true relations of the rich and poor. He made the Senate Chamber ring with the scorn which he poured out upon the idea of there being any natural hatred between them. The ve- hemence and eloquence of his denun- ciation of this abhorrent doctrine re- sounded through the Capitol. Members of the other House crowded into the Sen- ate Chamber to hear him, and the gal- leries, as well as the floor, were soon thronged. After he had concluded, the report that Webster had made one of his greatest speeches pervad~j the city. Pennsylvania Avenue and the hotels were vocal with his reiterated exclama- tions of contempt for the doctrine and its author, and the National intelligen- cer of the next morning was impatient- ly awaited for the detailed report of the speech. But the Intelligencer of the next morning contained no such matter. It represented Mr. Webster as having pre- sented a memorial, and as having ac- companied it with some plain, sensible, forcible remarks on its subject and its source; but not a word or a syllable was there about the rich and the poor, 124 WEBSTER S REPLY TO HA YNE. or about any hatred or any love be- tween them. It seemed that Webster, on sitting down after this entirely im- proniptu effort, had handed to the re- porter the little prepared speech, which, agreeably to his subsequent advice to me, he had written out beforehand to go into the newspapers with the memo- rial, and nothing but rumor remained of that memorable and masterly utter- ance. Most happily, however, with the aid of some short-hand notes which had been taken by others, and of his own memory and that of his friends, the speech was substantially recalled and forthcoming at an early day, and may now be read in his printed volumes. In the recently published single vol- ume of Websters Great Speeches, it will be found at page 359, under the title of The Natural Hatred of the Poor to the Rich, from a speech deliv- ered on January 31, 1834. The only occasion on which I remem- ber hearing Webster deliver a speech fully written out, with the copy in his hand, was at Fancuil Hall, in 1832, at the meeting called to sustain the Nulli- fication Proclamation of General Jack- son The speech was not a long one, but the occasion was a critical one for Mr. Webster, who was a strong anti- Jackson man, and at the same time a stronger friend to the Constitution and the Union. He evidently had resolved to guard himself against being betrayed by the excitement of the moment into any equivocal expressions. He had carefully pondered words and phrases as well as thoughts and principles, and had resolved to stick to his text. This speech will be found in the Appendix to Mr. George Ticknor Curtiss excel- lent Life of Webster. It happened that Harrison Gray Otis made a speech on the same occasion, and said much about the famous Hartford Convention, greatly to Mr. Websters annoyance, who told me, on returning to his office, where I was in the way of meeting him, that he would never again trust him- self on the same platform with Otis, who always insisted on lugging in that odious Conventioii. Harrison Gray Otis and the Hartford Conven- tion, he exclaimed, arc as insepara ble as those Siamese twins which are now on exhibition at the Museum. Webster was often, as we have seen, roused to great utterances on the spur of the instant by some immediate prov- ocation, and no one could do grander things without preparation of any sort. He had really no methods or habits of preparation. Sometimes he wrote out before speaking. Sometimes he wrote out elaborately after speaking. Some- times he had a long time for prepara- tion; sometimes, as in the Hayne case, a very short time. One of his grandest orationsperhaps the grandest of all was the Eulogy on Adams and Jeffer- son. They died in 1826, on the 4th of July. A week elapsed before he ac- cepted the appointment to deliver the Eulogy. It was delivered on the 2d of August. Three weeks of midsummer heat was all he had for that magnificent discourse. But I have reason to believe that his habit was always to make prep- aration for his efforts when there was opportunity for doing so. Some one is said to have asked him once whether that splendid passage about the British power and her drumbeat, in his speech in the Senate on The Presidents Pro- test, was an impromptu, struck out in the heat of debate. An impromptu! said he, almost scornfully, why, that idea first occurred to me twenty years before, while I was standing on the Heights of Abraham, and I have been trying to work it into shape ever since. But I never succeeded to my satisfac- tion until now! I once happened to witness the work- ing of Websters mind under somewhat peculiar circumstances. It was in Oc- tober, 1840, at the time of the great Harrison convention on B nker Hill. I was the chairman of the~hig State Central Committee at that time, and Webster was to preside at the mass meeting. He was to open the proceed- ings with a prepared address to the people, to be signed and read by him as president of the Whig convention. Franklin Dexter, who was to be the chief marshal of the procession, and I as chairman of the committee, were made responsible for seeing that Web- WEBSTER S REPLY TO HAYNE. 125 ster and the address were forthcoming. Webster was at Marshfleld for some weeks previously, and we could get no ~1 satisfactory answers to our letters ou the subject. Dexter was iu despair, and I nearly so. I sent him down at last a rough draft of a brief address of my own, hoping that it would stimulate him to prepare something worthier of his signature. In return he sent us a few sheets of rather feeble matter, which he submitted to our considera- tion and emendation. I was obliged to write him that Mr. Dexter and I were not content, and to beg him to prepare a more vigorous paper. No answer came for some days, and then I received only a summons to meet him at the United States Hotel in Boston at one oclock on the day before the conven- tion was to be held. We were all ex- cessively busy that day in receiving and entertaining the delegates from a distance, but I was punctually at the hotel, while some detention made Web- ster an hour late. And now, said he, I understand that you and Mr. Dexter do not think my address fit for the occasion to-morrow. Well, I re- plied, we have hardly put it so strong as that; but we do think that there will be great expectations, and that you can do something more spirited and strik- ing to meet them. Spirited and striking! If you think I am going to put my name to any mere caucus com- monplaces or Fancuil Hall flourishes, you and Mr. Dexter are much mis- taken. Very well, sir, we are con- tent, if you are ; let it stand as it is. It will be known as yours, and yours will be the responsibility. Where is my draft?~~ I have it here with ~ Will you be good enough to read it aloud, that we may hear how it sounds and see whats the matter with it? So I read the paper aloud, page by page, or rather paragraph after paragraph, while Webster began tramping the floor. I ventured from time to time to suggest changes, omissions, and addi- tions, most of which he readily accepted. Now and then he became irritated, as 4 when I criticised his use of the word deprecate in reference to a past event. Why, what would you have? Is not deplore more proper for what is past praying against? Well, de- plore, deploreproceed. But his in- creasing irritation made the sparks fly faster and thicker, and again and again he stopped short while he thought out and then dictated some glowing sen- tence. We came at length to a passage relating to the original incorporation of the United States Bank, when I re- minded Webster of a then recent re- mark of President Van Buren, in one of his Messages, in regard to corrupt in- fluences brought to bear upon WAsHING- TON in securing his signature to the charter. At this he fired up at the in- stant: Did Van Buren say that? Take your pen, if you please, and let me dictate a thought or two, while I walk the room. Accordingly I took the pen lying on the table, and wrote down for him the following words: There is yet another subject of com- plaint to which we feel bound to advert by our veneration for the illustrious dead, by our respect for truth, by our love for the honor of our country, and by our own wounded pride as American citizens. We feel that the country has been dishonored, and we desire to free ourselves from all imputation of ac- quiescence in the parricidal act. The late President, in a communication to Congress, more than intimates that some of the earliest and most important measures of Washingtons administra- tion were the offspring of personal mo- tives and private interests. His succes- sor has repeated and extended this accusation, and given to it, we are compelled to say, a greater degree of offensiveness and grossness. No man, with an American heart in his bosoni, can endure this without feeling the deepest humiliation as well as the most burning scorn. The fame of WAsHING- TON and his immediate associates is one of the richest treasures of the country. His is the name which an American may utter with pride in every part of the world, and which, wherever uttered, is shouted to the skies by the voices of all true lovers of human liberty. Imputa- tions which assail his measures so rude- ly, while they are abominable violations of the truth of history, are an insult to the coumitry and an offence against 126 WEBSTER S REPLY TO HA YNE. the moral sentiments of civilized man- kind. Miserable, miserable indeed, must be that cause which cannot support its party predominance, its ruinous schemes, and senseless experiments without thus attempting to poison the fountains of truth, and prove the gov- ernment of our country disgracefully corrupt, even in its very cradle. Our hearts would sink within us, if we be- lieved that such efforts could succeed; but they must be impotent. Neither the recent nor the present President was born to cast a shade on the char- acter of WASHINGTON or his associates. The destiny of both has been rather to illustrate, by contrast, that wisdom and those virtues which they have not imi- tated, and to hurl blows which the affec- tionate veneration of American citizens, and the general justice of the civilized world, will render harmless to others and powerful only in their recoil upon themselves. If this language be strong, so also is that feeling of indignation which suggested it; and on an occasion like this we could not leave this conse- crated spot without the consciousness of having omitted an indispensable duty had we not given utterance to the fulness of our hearts, and marked with our severest rebuke and most thorough reprobation and scoru a labored effort to fix a deep and enduring stain on the early history of the government. Webster paced the room and poured out these memorable words just as I have written them now, and as fast as I could write them then. Indeed, I could hardly hold my pen steady, as they came blazing from his lips under the immediate excitement of the mo- ment. He was thoroughly roused and inflamed, and I had the full impression of the action of his mind when at a white heat. That passage was the mak- ing of the address. Will that do? said he. Will the address do now ? I need hardly say that I assured him that I was perfectly satisfied. Mr. Healy, his office assistant or partner, then came in and copied other parts of the address after I had left him. But before I had reached the door, he called on me to stop a few minutes longer. Read me now the last page or two of the little draft of your own which you sent to me at Marshfield, for I think that will be the best conclusion of the whole matter. I read it to him accordingly, and he adopted all of it except one paragraph, and thereby hangs a tale. The paragraph to which he objected was one complimentary to John Tyler, of Virginia, the Whig candidate for the Vice-Presidency on the ticket with Gen- eral Harrison. When I came to that he said at once, Stop there! not a word about John Tyler not a word! The nomination ought never to have been made. I have no confidence in him, and I will not sign any address which expresses confidence in him. But he is our candidate, sir, I re- plied; the song runs Tippecanoc and Tyler too, you know. I dont care what the song says, or what anybody may say. I shall not indorse John Tyler. Strike out every word, every word relating to him ! But, sir, an entire omission of the name of one of the Whig candidates will occasion great remark. Let me at least put it in par- enthetically, coupling it with Harrison as the two candidates to be supported. Well, if you can put his name in, so as to imply no confidence in its owner, you may do so; but I shall sign noth- ing which approves that nomination. And so I arranged the paragraph ac- cordingly, as it is printed. The subsequent relations of Webster with Tyler, after Harrisons death and Tylers becoming President, render this incident somewhat amusing, to say the least. It was as Tylers Secretary of State that he won the proud distinction of negotiating the Ashburton Treaty, and settling the long-vexed question of our Northeastern boundary. He re- mained in Tylers Cabinet when all his colleagues left him, and the country had reason to rejoice in his doing so. A word, before closing this paper, on Websters style and delivery. I have heard him often, and speak from per- sonal impressions. I was at Bunker Hill in 1825 when he delivered the Ora- tion on the laying of the Corner-stone of the Monument. I heard his Eulogy on Adams and Jefferson in 1826. I WEBSTER S REPLY TO HA YNE. 127 drove to Salem, and heard his famous argument in the Knapp Case. I heard him in the Tuttle Hubbard Case before the Supreme Court of Massachusetts against the celebrated orator William Wirt, of Baltimore; and in the Supreme Court of the United States against the no less celebrated counsellor of Phila- delphia, Horace Binney, in the Girard College Case. I heard most of his speeches in the United States Senate while I was in Congress with him, in- cluding his famous 7th of March speech in 1850; and I have heard him, and spoken after him, on numerous occa- sions at Fancuil Hall and elsewhere. My testimony, therefore, such as it is, may well be called personal. I may say at the outset that he had none of the arts or tricks of rhetoric. He never studied gesticulation, and did not use much of it. There was a pose about him when he rose to speak, like that of the incomparable statue of De- mosthenes in the Vatican, or like that of Paul on Mars Hill in the celebrated cartoon of Raphael His grand pres- ence and noble voice rendered every- thing he said impressive. But his eloquence had nothing of the florid sort. It was the eloquence of clear, cogent argument and of occasional deep emo- tion, expressed in pure, forcible, Saxon words sometimes adorned by most felicitous quotations, and sometimes by magnificent and matchless metaphors. In almost all these respects he was very unlike Everett, and still more unlike Choate. Of Edward Everetts eloquence consummate of its kind delivery, de- scription, narration and illustration, his- torical incident and classical allusion, were the most notable and noteworthy features. It is hardly too much to say of him if I may borrow from my own tribute to him at Fanenil Hall a day or two after his death it is hardly too much to say of him that he established a new standard of American eloquence; that he was the founder of a new school of occasional oratory, of ~ which he was at once the acknowledged master and the best pupil, and in which we were all proud to sit at his feet as disciples. Delivering his principal orations avowedly from memory, every sentence and every gesture were studied to produce the most striking effect. And they did produce it. He was as dramatic at times as Kean or Macready, and his audiences hung with rapture on his lips. Rufus Choate, on the other hand, was all impetuositypouring cut torrents of exquisite thought and brilliant lan- guage in utter disregard of the length of his sentences or the vehemence of his gesticulation. One might say of him, as Cicero said of Scawola, Jurisperitorum eloquentissimus, eloquentium jurisper- itissimus. He was certainly the most eloquent of our jurists, and the greatest jurist of our orators. Daniel Webster, unlike both, was all deliberation, both in matter and in manner. I do not believe that it ever occurred to him what gestures he should make, or that he ever remembered what gestures he had made. His words seemed to flow spontaneously and of- ten slowly, whether from his lips or his pen, as from a profound and exhaustless reservoir of thought. Of him it might be, and perhaps often has been, said Deep on his front engraven Deliberation sat, and public care. His look Drew audience and attention still as night. I may be permitted to conclude and sum up my description of him with the words I used at the dedication of his statue in Central Park, New York, in 1876: Among those who have been celebrated as orators or public speakers, in our own day or in other days, there have been many diversities of gifts and many diversities of operations. There have been those who were listened to wholly for their intellectual qualities, for the wit or the wisdom, the learning or the philosophy, which characterized their efforts. There have been those whose main attraction was a curious felicity and facility of illustration and description, adorned by the richest gems which could be gathered by his- torical research or classical study. There have been those to whom the charms of manner and the graces of elocution and the melody of voice were the all-sufficient recommendations to 128 END YMION. attention and applause. And there profound and weighty. No style more have been those who owed their success terse and telling. No illustrations more more to opportunity and occasion, to vivid and clear-cut. No occasions more some stirring theme or some exciting august and momentous. No voice emergency, than to any peculiar attn- more deep and thrilling. No manner butes of their own. But Webster com- more imprcssive and admirable. No bined everything. No thoughts more presence so grand and majestic as his. ENDYMION. By Sara King Wiley. AcRoss the deep blue of the summer sky Slow sweeps the silver moon, the night has flown Beneath the forest branches, shadows lie Black, in the hollows where the leaves have blown. Sudden a twig snaps; from the woods dark side Darts forth the huntress, heaving is her breast, But closed her firm lips, though her nostrils wide Swell with her panting breath. Her eyes unrest Notes a prone formthe wearied stag, perchance! She plunges through the grass and as she creeps Grasps close her spear, when her amazed glance Falls on Endymion, sighing as he sleeps. His bright head pillowed on his bended arm, His chin tipped high that she may mark the curve Of red lips and long lashes, and the warm Glow on his cheek and the relax6d nerve Of that brown hand dropped on his moving chest. She stands as in a trance, and first that night Forgets to heed the sport she loves the best, With all her senses shrunken into sight. Unconsciously her hand pressed on her heart, As flower petals quiver in the wind Her sweet lips tremble, fallen just apart. She bendeth down and her long locks unbind And dropping almost sweep the sleepers face; Close in one hand the soft dark mass compressed She clutches carelessly and holds in place. Her white arms crossing then upon her breast Lower she stoops, and on his brow there falls A touch like brushing leaves. Wide snap his eyes, And in the stillness hark! the chirping calls Of insects in the grass. Endymion lies Deeming the whole a dream; his fixed stare Brings her to consciousness, she starts, to fly Into the forest shade, and leaves him there In half waked wonder gazing at the sky.

128 END YMION. attention and applause. And there profound and weighty. No style more have been those who owed their success terse and telling. No illustrations more more to opportunity and occasion, to vivid and clear-cut. No occasions more some stirring theme or some exciting august and momentous. No voice emergency, than to any peculiar attn- more deep and thrilling. No manner butes of their own. But Webster com- more imprcssive and admirable. No bined everything. No thoughts more presence so grand and majestic as his. ENDYMION. By Sara King Wiley. AcRoss the deep blue of the summer sky Slow sweeps the silver moon, the night has flown Beneath the forest branches, shadows lie Black, in the hollows where the leaves have blown. Sudden a twig snaps; from the woods dark side Darts forth the huntress, heaving is her breast, But closed her firm lips, though her nostrils wide Swell with her panting breath. Her eyes unrest Notes a prone formthe wearied stag, perchance! She plunges through the grass and as she creeps Grasps close her spear, when her amazed glance Falls on Endymion, sighing as he sleeps. His bright head pillowed on his bended arm, His chin tipped high that she may mark the curve Of red lips and long lashes, and the warm Glow on his cheek and the relax6d nerve Of that brown hand dropped on his moving chest. She stands as in a trance, and first that night Forgets to heed the sport she loves the best, With all her senses shrunken into sight. Unconsciously her hand pressed on her heart, As flower petals quiver in the wind Her sweet lips tremble, fallen just apart. She bendeth down and her long locks unbind And dropping almost sweep the sleepers face; Close in one hand the soft dark mass compressed She clutches carelessly and holds in place. Her white arms crossing then upon her breast Lower she stoops, and on his brow there falls A touch like brushing leaves. Wide snap his eyes, And in the stillness hark! the chirping calls Of insects in the grass. Endymion lies Deeming the whole a dream; his fixed stare Brings her to consciousness, she starts, to fly Into the forest shade, and leaves him there In half waked wonder gazing at the sky. MB. LOWELL seems to me in many ways the finest personality among American men of letters. Not the greatest genius (it is an old platitude that the man who consists en- tirely in his genius does not always make the finest personality), but the one that is ripest without loss of strength, best round- ed without loss of individuality, most real- ly vigorous without noise or gymnastics. There is a passage in his recently published letters where he speaks of the power of the quiet old giants Homer, Plato, Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Goethe patent unshiftable ballast that keeps earth and hu- man thought trimmed and true on an even keel. Lowell trimmed his ship with this kind of ballast, but used it as a means to make her seaworthy in really vigorous voy- ages, npt to keep her pleasurably tranquil on the quiet waters of dilettanteism. In- deed, perhaps his finest aspect in our liter- ary history is not his innate literary power or his scholarship, great as they were, but the manner of his application of them. His traditions and surroundings and a part of his temperamentmade the usual temptation of the scholar peculiarly great, to be a looker-on in the present and do his living in the past; but he never treated even the best traditions of literature as a sufficient substitute for having convictions of ones own, or accepted a full knowledge of past human progress as a plenary indul- gence for standing still in the battles of his own time. As he himself said a poet should, lie kept measure with his people; and from the Biglow Papers to his English addresses, if lie served literature first he served hardly less ths ideal of free and high national aims and public policy which VOL. XV.I3 he more than once formulated in very no- ble words. When to all this was added the personal charm of the man, ~vhich no one ever failed to feel who knew him ever so little, there was no one to whose published letters we had the right to look forward with more interest. So that it seems almost like an audacityand if it had anything to do with ones estimate of Mr. Lowell it would be an ungracious taskto express even a shade of disappointment with the two volumes that have been given us. Yet this is what I confess I have felt, and what it seems to me more loyal to our belief about the man if I have any fellows in the feelingto express than to set down as of necessity a mistake. The personal charm is there, in the highest degree; and in so far the vol- umes would be a welcome addition to liter- ature in any case. It is impossible to know, too, just what material existed; and criti- cism might go far wrong if it attributed to the editor the mistake in selection of imply- ing that a man shows most of himself in those letters in which lie says most about himself; but I, at least, cannot leave the book without the impression that Mr. Low- ell must often have expressed himself more deeply and fully in his correspondence than these letterswith perhaps a dozen fine exceptionspermit jis to see; or that (quite as probably) he was a man who let his work alone show his depths, and in his letters allowed himself, even with his closest inti- mates, to dwell only on the surface of his life. In non-essentials these letters are, of course, unreserved indeed, and those who could read the full man into them would wonder at any sense of lack; but in essen

MB. LOWELL seems to me in many ways the finest personality among American men of letters. Not the greatest genius (it is an old platitude that the man who consists en- tirely in his genius does not always make the finest personality), but the one that is ripest without loss of strength, best round- ed without loss of individuality, most real- ly vigorous without noise or gymnastics. There is a passage in his recently published letters where he speaks of the power of the quiet old giants Homer, Plato, Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Goethe patent unshiftable ballast that keeps earth and hu- man thought trimmed and true on an even keel. Lowell trimmed his ship with this kind of ballast, but used it as a means to make her seaworthy in really vigorous voy- ages, npt to keep her pleasurably tranquil on the quiet waters of dilettanteism. In- deed, perhaps his finest aspect in our liter- ary history is not his innate literary power or his scholarship, great as they were, but the manner of his application of them. His traditions and surroundings and a part of his temperamentmade the usual temptation of the scholar peculiarly great, to be a looker-on in the present and do his living in the past; but he never treated even the best traditions of literature as a sufficient substitute for having convictions of ones own, or accepted a full knowledge of past human progress as a plenary indul- gence for standing still in the battles of his own time. As he himself said a poet should, lie kept measure with his people; and from the Biglow Papers to his English addresses, if lie served literature first he served hardly less ths ideal of free and high national aims and public policy which VOL. XV.I3 he more than once formulated in very no- ble words. When to all this was added the personal charm of the man, ~vhich no one ever failed to feel who knew him ever so little, there was no one to whose published letters we had the right to look forward with more interest. So that it seems almost like an audacityand if it had anything to do with ones estimate of Mr. Lowell it would be an ungracious taskto express even a shade of disappointment with the two volumes that have been given us. Yet this is what I confess I have felt, and what it seems to me more loyal to our belief about the man if I have any fellows in the feelingto express than to set down as of necessity a mistake. The personal charm is there, in the highest degree; and in so far the vol- umes would be a welcome addition to liter- ature in any case. It is impossible to know, too, just what material existed; and criti- cism might go far wrong if it attributed to the editor the mistake in selection of imply- ing that a man shows most of himself in those letters in which lie says most about himself; but I, at least, cannot leave the book without the impression that Mr. Low- ell must often have expressed himself more deeply and fully in his correspondence than these letterswith perhaps a dozen fine exceptionspermit jis to see; or that (quite as probably) he was a man who let his work alone show his depths, and in his letters allowed himself, even with his closest inti- mates, to dwell only on the surface of his life. In non-essentials these letters are, of course, unreserved indeed, and those who could read the full man into them would wonder at any sense of lack; but in essen 130 THE POINT OF VIEW. tialswith the exceptions noticedthey do not carry the outside reader deepcertainly not as deep as any of those of his works in which, as Mr. Norton well says, he made to the public . . . such revelation of his inward experiences and emotions as he alone had the right to make, and such as may well suffice to satisfy all legitimate interest in the spiritual development of the poet and in the nature of his most intimate and sacred human relations. It is needless to say that not the least of depths like these is for the reader of published letters; but there is a plane upon which we may meet, with no feeling of sacrilege, with a writer whose work has grown to be a part of our possession and who has passed to that time when publication of his literary legacy is justified at alland it is upon this plane that his correspondence sometimes places us. It is no ones fault, doubtless, if these two volumes of Mr. Lowells letters do not quite do this, as it seems to me they do not. We must be content with what we have in this addition to his legacy; the legacy it- self is enough. Ar one of its public entertainments, a few months since, a New York club that has literature for its foremost interest, subdued the men of letters for the nonce all into lis- teners and gave the entertaining over solely to musicians. One of these, a well-known critic, exercising a journalists dexterity in seizing an opportunity, made the brief ad- dress that he was appointed to deliver, a reproof to the men of letters for their indif- ference to music. He recited that a few evenings before, in talk with a well-known author, there fell some mention of this very entertainment, when the author said, Oh, yes, a musical entertaiument. That lets me out. This remark, the speaker contended, aptly illustrated the attitude toward music of authors in general. It will scarcely be denied that the con- tention was sound. There are too many in- stances in proof to successfully gainsay it. The brothers Goncourt relate that, haviug once confessed to Gautier their own com- plete musical infirmity, which rendered them unable to relish any but military music, Gautier cried out, Ah, that gives me great pleasure, what you say. I am like you. I prefer silence to music. I am simply a pretender, having once lived a part of my life with a cantatrice, in order to dis- criminate good and bad music; but they are absolutely equal to me. And he added: It is curious likewise that all the writers of the time are so. Balzac execrated it. Hugo cannot suffer it. Lamartine holds it in horror. Here is a pretty wide departure from the days when literature was yet all poetry, and poetry was only minstrelsy. Then the literary and the musical office united in one person. And even later, when the poets verses had come to be recited instead cf chanted or sung, the poet still trained him- self carefully in music, as in all the other graceful arts of his time. But neither then nor ever was the man of letters more con- siderate of self-culture than in most direc- tions he is just now. He travels into the farthest parts of the earth; he studies languages, history, science, architecture, sculpture, painting; he pursues his art with the utmost nicety, liberality, industry. It is grown his dogma that he cannot have too diverse sympathies, too various a knowl- edge; that he must know, must feel, life in all its phases. He cannot at will command the musicians ear. But, then, neither can he at will command the sculptors or the painters eye; and, when he finds this want- ing to him, he strives to remove or conceal the defect by study. While confessing his ignorance of music almost proudly, you will rarely hear him confess to having no relish or judgment in pictures or statuary. In them, if he does not, he will very often at least affect to know. It can hardly be that the followers of an art whereof the end is to analyze and por- tray human life, especially in its inner as- pects of motive and aspiration, have dis- regarded so potent a spiritual influence as music unquestionably is, without serious loss. Such a loss, of course, there are no means of measuring; but one may get a hint of its nature, if not of its extent, by considering the few instances of men of letters endowed with a musical talent. The most notable of these is Milton; and I can- not but think that his skill in music much more than that practice in prose, espe- cially in the long involutions of Latin periods, noted by Lowell, helped him to give that variety of pause and that majes THE POINT OF VIEW. 131 tic harm onv to his blank verse which have made it so unapproachably his own. For even in the prose of the Latin periods he has attained, amidst many barbarities, to strains of a harmony scarcely less majestic than that of his verse. Then, to what new and noble similitudes his knowledge of mu- sic has helped! But beyond these open- er and more technical profits, I am sure, if the whole truth could be come at, it would be found that music contributed in no small measure to the maintenance of that rare exaltation which is the informing spirit of the whole of Miltons work. We find the like exaltation in one who called Milton her demigod, George Eliot. She also was a musician, and her writings give clear proof of profiting by the talent. That conversation, for example, between Gwen- dolen and Klesmer, on which every admirer puts his finger as one of George Eliots supreme achievements, would have been impossible to her, had she shared Balzacs execration of music. What music seems in an eminent degree fitted to do, is to foster the mystical qual- ity; and without somewhat of the mystical quality, though only hard-headedness seems to be its study at present, literature has never yet gone far. Jr is worth noting that the question of the chaperon is just now attracting much attention on both sides of the Atlantic, with this important difference that the Americans are discussing the adoption, and the English the abolition, of that func- tionary and her functions, and on each side the example of the other is gravely cited in support of the change. In England the agitation seems to come chiefly from the more courageous of the young women, who, having shown their ability to keep up with their brothers, and sometimes to pass them, in the schools, advance the proposition that they are perfectly able to take care of them- selves under circumstances which have heretofore required them to have a more or less effective guardianship; and they point to the liberty enjoyed by American girls, with apparent safety, to an extent which cer- tainly does not obtain in England. On the other hand, the customperhaps it would be better to call it the fashionof chaperon- ing is advocated on our happier shores, on the ground that it tends to cultivate among our young women the freshness, the modes- ty, the calm innocence of mind and manner that are attributed in English girls to the strictness with which their associations are regulated by the presence of an older and more experienced companion. It is clear- ly a complex and delicate question, on which a definitive conclusion is extremely difficult. So far as our own experience goes I think the chaperon is getting more and more a raison dare. Apart from the in- fluence of the silly desire to ape the cus- toms of a society where rank and standing are sharply defined, and so to create the im- pression that they are sharply defined among the imitators, there are very good argu- ments for restricting the liberty, formerly so general and so extended, of young un- married women. That liberty was natural and safe when our cities were small, when the leisure class hardly existed, when the character of associates was well known or easily ascertained, and when social occu- pation was relatively simple. Those con- ditions have greatly changed, and though the change has been inevitable, it has not been altogether for the better. There are still, happily, thousands of families in which the duties of a chaperon, so far as they arise, are performed easily, affection- ately, and wisely, by mothers and elder sisters, and where the standard of life is pure and high enough to exclude the risks that call for any especial protection. But there is also a class, with wealth and leisure and social ambitions, whose example has a strong influence, and over a wide range, in which it seems to me the chaperon has a distinct place. If the class were, in some respects, better, she might not be needed; but being what it is, a class with many idle hands and heads, for which the great purveyor of mischief still is always on the watch, it might be much worse if the chaperon were not provided. Doubtless it is a matter that will take care of itself after a fashion ; but it is just as well for those among us who may be exempt from the rather humiliating conditions that sug- gest this institution to recognize that it is not a mere fad, but has considerable and various uses. 132 THE POINT OF VIEW. IT is complained of the times that they make too many specialists. The econom- ical division of labor seems to demand that workers shall confine themselves to a par- ticular detail of a job, which passes out of their hands to be completed. Editors no longer set type and write up local occur- rences. Physicians, in increasing numbers, confine their ministrations to the eye, or the ear, or the throat, or the vermiform ap- pendix. Among artisans it is the exception when a single tailor completes a coat, or one machinist makes a complete machine. Consequently specialists abound and all- around men are scarce. Now, it is economical and profitable on various accounts to be a specialist, but there are charms and even a measure of ad- vantage about being an all-around man; and means that tend to preserve the capac- ity to deal with things in general without sacrificing the mastery of something in par- ticular, are worth cultivating in the interest of general development. That must be the developing specialists justification in cul- tivating the branch of domestic industry known as chores. It is apparently waste- ful for a man who can earn several dollars an hour at the work which is his specialty, to spend any of his time in labor which can be better performed for him by the man whose time is worth very much less. If the better paid man lets his chores encroach upon the hours that belong to his special work, he certainly is wasteful, but it does not prove that it is wiser for him to forego chores altogether. In moderation and at proper times, they are good for him. As a rule, the better he is paid for the hours he spends on his regular job, the fewer hours he works at it. That is not because he is satisfied with less than he can earn, but be- cause high-priced work is usually exhaust- ing, and cannot be long kept up without loss of quality. So the best-paid men com- monly have some leisure, part of which they should devote to culture and various supplementary duties, and part, I maintain, to chores which cannot be left out without appreciable detriment. We are used to being told that it is not enough to give mere money to charity, and that our benefactions, if they are to do the most good to us and to those whom they help, must include personal service. We seem to owe a measure of personal service to domestic life as well as to charity, and if we do not pay it, domestic life does not yield to us all that we might get out of it. The ability to do things depends partly upon our willingness to do them now and then. But the ability to do things is power, and power is very sweet to have and to exercise, and that not only in great things but in small. The man who cannot do the ordinary small tinkering that has to be done from week to week in an ordinary modern house, denies himself a conscious- ness of power which is very cheap at the price it costs. Not to be able to put wash- ers on a leaking water-faucet, to take off or put on gas-burners, and to remedy the sim- pler maladies of plumbing, is to admit one s self to be the mere occupant, but not the master, of the modern house. To put in glass takes too much time, and altogether it is not as necessary to the modern as it was to his grandfather, that he should know how to be his own glazier. So with most carpenter work. It takes too long to do well any job of consequence; better have in the adept from his shop. And yet some tools and the ability to use them seem to be indispensable to the house-holders self- respect. Not to be able to plane the top of a door or the edge of a drawer when it sticks; or to drive a nail straight, or send home a screw without splitting the wood, or fit a key, or mend a childs toy, must involve a humiliating consciousness of inefficiency. Yet there are men who strive to reconcile with self-esteem all these incompetencies, and another more inexcus- able than either of themthe inability to run a furnace and raise or lower the tem- perature of ones habitation at will. Tuning pianos and mending dormant clocks are accomplishments, and do not come under the head of ordinary chores. Moreover, they are occupations of elegant leisure, and not for the odd moments of a busy life. But with true chores it is dif- ferent. There is a flavor about them which is too valuable to be lost out of life. A house-holder who has none that he recog- nizes might almost as well live in a hotel. He is the sort of man who rings for a ser- vant when the open fire falls down. Poor helpless one, who misses so much of the luxury of doing things for himself! _ A r JEAN GEOFFROYS THE PRAYER OF THE HUMBLE. 1Selections by Philip 6Ulberl Ha~ner1on fro~n Types of Contemporary Painting. ~ee p. 248.] I;

/ SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE. VOL. XV. FEBPJJAIRY, 1894. No. 2. EDWARD BURNE-JONES. By Cosmo Mon/Thouse. I. THE questions What is art? and What is poetry? will still prob- ably employ the intellects of man- kind for a good many years to come, but meanwhile it is safe to affirm that Edward Burne-Jones is both an artist and a poet. Perhaps the gentleman who is credited with the saying, that Rem- brandt might have been a great artist if he had not been cursed with an imagina- tion, would set little store by such highly imaginative designs as those of Burne- Jones; but fortunately one extreme pro- A duces another, and the latest (or a few days ago the latest) of art-aphorisms is (or was), that Velasquez was the com- mencement of photography. Extremes Copyright, 1S94, by Charles Scribners Sons. All rights reserved. are said to meet, and if they do not meet, they help to level the ground to a platform of common sense, and when this is accomplished there will probably be found room among the artists for Rembrandt and Velasquez, and Burne- Jones also. Yet there are some even of his ad mirers who regard him as an anachron- ism, because he works in the spirit and style of the Old Masters. But these forget that he lives in an age which is as fond of retrospect as of progress, of pleasure as of business, and takes a romance to read in an express train. The greater the crush, the greater the need for some cool and quiet anteroom; the ruder the pressure of mundane re- alities, the stronger the desire to escape Study for the Masque at Cupid. 136 EDWARD BURNE-JONES. to the land of dreams, where there is no time, or care, or worldly strife. It is true that some prefer the novel to the romance, and the men who enjoy pictures may be divided into two classes: those who seek theni for the pleasure of repeating familiar sights, and those who desire to behold what they can never see with their mortal eyes. Constable and Millais delight the former, Turner and Burne-Jones -the latter. Is this world of imagination more beautiful than that of nature? Who shall say? It is not all who have the entr~c there. But those at least who have, think that it is so, or they would not visit it so often or stay there so long. It is the fashion to be surprised at ever appeals to it in vain, and no on has appealed to it with greater succes than Burne - Jones. King Cophetna tranced at the beauty of the Beggar Maidthe Beggar Maid wondering at the love of King Coplietna; tbe Virgin Mary trembling with reverent awe in the presence of the Announcing Angel; the two primeval lovers, seated closely side by side in the green woodland, their souls entranced by the weird, wild figure of Pan, and the shrill, sweet sounds of his pipe; Pygmalion scarcely believing that his impossible prayer haa been answered, and that his own marble statue is filled with life and yielding it- self warm and loving to his arms; the Merciful Knight at the foot of the Crucifix from which the huge wooden image bends to bless him ;~Lit does not matter whether the theme be Christian o~ pagan, it is the wonder of it that takes the a r t is t s imagination, and gives real life to the beauty of his design. So special a quality is this feel- ing of wonder (reverential wonder or awe) in Mr. Burne-Joness work, that it may be stated as perhaps his greatest claim to dis- tinction among all artists past or present. The germ was innate, but it was nnrsed and developed by the great mystic Dante Gabriel iRossetti, the leader of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. It is unnec- essary here to inquire very minutely into the exact tenets of the brotherhood. Sincerity was their real watchword, and their mot- to may be roughly phrased as Take care of the facts and the beauty will take care of itself. To reject nothing, to select nothing, Study of Figure for Venuss Looking-glass. to scorn nothing, in nature, was the duty set before nothing, but the sense of wonder is still - them by Mr. iRuskin; and with regard with ns. No poet of words or paint to historical pictures they were to rep- *** The pictures in this article, where not otherwise descrihed. are reproduced hy the kind permission of Mr. Burne-Jones, and (in all cases where the contrary is not stated) through photographs made and copyrighted hy Mr. r. Hollyor, who has kindly added his consent to their use. 1 Portrait of E. Burne-Jones after Wattss Picture. f ENGRAVED BY T. JOHNCON. 138 EDWARD B UP NE-JO NES. Portrait of a Nestorian Priest.5 (Reproduced for the first time by permission of Mr. Burne- Jones.) resent events as they did happen, and not as they might be picturesquely sup- posed to have happened. The dictum as to selection was diffi- cult enough even in the most realistic art, but what about art which was not realistic at all? What about landscapes that were never seen, and events which never did happen? How to treat those visions of the poets which, as long as man exists will demand some attempt of the poetic artist to realize in form? Millais could buy his strawberries in Covent Garden Market, but even in that emporium of the fruit of the world, where could he find an apple from the gardens of Eden, or the Hesperides? iRossetti might find in Wardour Street furniture and armor of any century he chose, but where could he get the hel- met of Perseus or the greaves of Mars? Where does the great principle of sin- cerity come in here? The answer is comparatively easybe sincere to your imagination, realize as far as possible the vision of your mind, careful that your design is the expression of your true self, not an imitation of what some- * This is a portrait of a Priest of a Nestorian Mon- astery in Babylonia, which was burnt down a few years ago. The priest, who could not speak a word of any European language, set out to travel the world, in order to obtain snhscriptions to rebuild his monastery, and found his way to the house of Mr. Borne-Jones, who took his portrait. Scarcely less remarkable than his grand face was his jet-black hair, so close and wiry that it looked as though it were carved out of black basalt. one else has done, or what you think he would have done in your place. In imaginative art such sincerity as this is the only way to salvation, and Burne-Jones found it. II. EDWARD BURNE - JONES was edu- cated at King Edwards School, in Birmingham, where he was born in 1833. He was intended for the Church, and had among his school- fellows two bo~ys who were here- after to be greatly distinguished in that profession. One of these was the late Bishop Lightfoot; the other, the present Archbishop of Canterbury. In 1852 he gained an Exhibition at Exeter College, Oxford, and it was at this chosen seat of learning, of all places in the world, that he was diverted from letters to art, from the preaching of sermons to the painting of pictures. It was at Mr. Combes, of the Clarendon Press, that he first saw works of the Pre-Raphaclites, Holman Hunts Light of the World among them; but he was even more at- tracted by Rossettis drawing of Dante Preparing to Paint Beatrice, and a lit- tle woodcut after the same artist, called Elfinmere, which illustrated a volume of William Alhiughams poems. The romance, the mysticism, and unearthly beauty of Rossettis creations exercised Study for Pan in the Picture of The Garden of Pan. (Reproduced for the first time by permission of Mr. Burne-Jones.) K an immediate fascination over him, and, as if to complete the spell, it was at college that he met William Morris, the futnre decorative poet and poetical dee- A~ orator, with whom he was to enter into a lifelong partnership of the imagina- tion. When Burne-Jones caine up to Lon don, in 1855, with a burning desire to meet IRossetti, he was already two-and- twenty. For once the hero of the im- agination answered to the ideal, and as the attraction was mutual, it was not long before the two assumed intimate relations as guide and follower. IRos- setti persuaded him to leave the Univer- 139 Study for Head of the Virgin in The Annunciation. (Reproduced for the first time by permission of Mr. Burne-Jones.) 140 sity without taking his degree, and the year 1856 saw him established at 17 Red Lion Square, with IRossetti as his master and William Morris as his friend and fellow-lodger. It is interesting, if idle, to speculate whether the advice and influence of iRossetti were the best he could have had. iRossetti ran a great risk in bid- ding him forego all academic training. He had never had the patience to go through a thorough discipline himself, and his want of craftsmanship is pain- fully visible in much of his work. It seems something like the advice of the fox who had cut off his tail, but there is no question of IRossettis sincerity. He feared that the enforced drudgery of copying from the antique would blunt, if not destroy, the fine sensitive imagination of his young friend; and he himself was fitted, as no other man Study of Drapery. was, to stimulate and direct that teem- ing fancy, that fine sense of decorative beauty which Burne-Jones possessed. By strenuous efforts Burne-Jones has fairly made up for the deficiencies of his early training. He is now one of the most subtle and exquisite of draughtsmen, and if some imperfec- tions still remain they are not of a kind to impair either the expression of his feeling or the beauty of his concep- tions. In 1858 he went to Oxford to aid in the decoration of the Oxford llJnion, a literary and debating club of the un- dergraduates. Alas! all these designs by the enthusiastic band of young ar- tists under the leadership of IRossetti have blackened or peeled from the walls. Burne-Joness subject was Mer- lin and Nimue (Yivien), which he after- ward chose for one of his most cel- ebrated pictures. With him were Arthur Hughes and Yal Prinsep, and not least, William Morris, who, about this time, published his first volume of poems, The Defence of Guene- vere, to be followed (though not till 1865) by the Life and Death of Ja- son. Never were poetry and paint- ing more closely allied than in the works of William Morris and Burne- Jones. Morris seems to have been made to furnish subjects for Burne- Jone& s pencil, and he himself de- picted them in words which have al- most the effect of paint. They both lived in the same honeyed world of romance to which IRossetti had in- troduced them. Many others had reached it before, among whom Chau- cer in the past and Tennyson in the then present must not be forgotten; but of the younger living men these two penetrated alone into its sweet- er and more silent places, sheltered from the fiercer gusts of passion in which Swinburne revelled. No doubt one of their greatest ties was the remarkable feeling for dec- orative beauty which both possessed. In the year 1856 Burne-Jones made a great many designs for stained glass, some of which were carried out by Messrs. Powell, the celebrated glass-makers in Whitefriars, London; but since 1860 all his windows have EDWARD BURNE-JONES. ENSSAVES a F. e. KINO. The God-head Fires. (From a drawing for a picture in the Pygmalion Series.) been executed by the well - known firm ary history of Italy and Provenee, like of which Mr. William Morris is still the King Ren6s Honeymoon and The head. To these days belong those early Wedding of Buondelmonte. Many water-colors some of which, exhibited were from Chaucer, two from the won- at the old (now Royal) Water-color derful modern romance of Sidonia the Society, first drew public attention to Sorceress, and a few from classical lore, his strange imagination. The designs like Theseus and Ariadne, The Wine of this period were mainly romantic, of Circe, and Cupid and Psyche ; but mixed with such themes as the others again were pictures of his own legends of Sir Degrevant and Sir Ga- fancy, as Laus Veneris, and The lahad, of Morgan Le Fay and Childe Backgammon Players (often called the#-~ Rolande, were others drawn from the chess players). Whatever his subject, Bible, as the Annunciation and the it was nearly always one of mystery and Nativity, and from the semi-legend- wonder, and was always treated in the 142 The Doom Fulfilled. (From a cartoon for a picture in the Persens Series.) EDWARD B LIP NE-JONES. 143 same visionary manner. None of his drawings at the Water-color ~ Society, of which he was elected an associate in 1863, produced a greater impression than that of The Merciful Knight (1863), already mentioned. It is said that the figure of the Knight was drawn from a woman, and the work is in many ways immature, but nothing interferes with the profound sense of the supernat- ural with which the whole com- position is suffused. The specta- tor feels that he is the witness of a miracle. He had now (1865) followed the profession of an artist for ten years, and had achieved a certain and distinct position as a painter in water-colors, and a designer for stained glass. He had been to Italy, where his genius had been fed with the spiritual beauty of the real Pre-iRaphaclites, and the germs of some of his most famous picturesthe Laus Veneris, the Beguiling of Merlin, The An- nunciation, the Wine of Circe, the Chant dAmour had taken root. For another twelve years the same steady progress, the same unresting labor was to con- tinue, before he can be said to have become really famous. For part of these years the public had little opportunity of watching his development, for in 1870 an un- fortunate dispute ended for eigh- teen years his connection with the Water-color Society, and ex- cept at the Dudley Gallery (Egyp- tian Hall), in 1873, he seldom if ever exhibited in London. The public were, therefore, scarcely prepared for the wonderful ap- parition which was in store for them when the Grosvenor Gallery opened its doors for the first time in 1877. The imaginative feeling of the strange pictures which met their view, was indeed akin to that of the poems of IRossetti, Morris, and Swinburne, but the presen- tation of it in pictorial form was comparatively new, for it must be remembered that Rossetti, as a The Depths of the Sea. (Photographed by Henry Dixon afher the ofi picture. By per- mission of the owner, R. H. Brown, Esq.) 144 EDWARD B UK NE-JO NES. Study of a Head. painter, was known to them only by ru- mor. The revelation of Burne-Jones s genius was almost as complete as it was sudden. The Six Days of Crea- tion, in lofty allegory, The Beguiling of Merlin, in its weird glamour; the Mirror of Venus, in its childlike beauty, have scarcely been surpassed by any later work. They showed also the main sources of his inspiration; the Bible, romantic legend, and clas- sical poetry; those three chief districts of the world of wonder in which he lived. One thing to be noted, of these as of all other pictures by Burne- Jones, is that the persons pictured have no concern with you, they are all wrapt in the trance of their own thoughts. The angels of Creatiou look through you; sight is suspend- ed in the eyes of Merlin ; the maid- ens look at themselves. You look at them all as you might peer into Doc- tor Dees shewstone, or into one of those wondrous crystal globes which the angels of the Creation hold in their hand, each reflecting a vision of the days divine handiwork. Criticism might have much to say about the stat- ure of Vivien, and the solidity of the reflections in the Mirror, and other matters, but Burne-Jones, as the French say, had arrived. No criticism nor ridicule (and there was naturally plenty of the latter) could disguise the fact that there was a strong and original art-personality suddenly revealed, whose shortcomings were but a featherweight in comparison with the subtlety of im- agination, the fertility of design, the exquisite and intricate beauty of color, which, to all who were open to their in- fluences, made these pictures like the birth of a new joy into the world. Next year came the wonderful Laus Veneris, which had been begun seven- teen years before. On the right a pale queen, weary of loveless sovereignty, sits languidly with her crown on her knees, her rich orange dress relieved against a greenish tapestry on which are de- picted scenes of romantic love; to the left are seated four beautiful maid- ens in costumes of bright colors, so- lacing their mistress by reciting the praises of love; while through the win- dow are seen knights in armor keenly seeking glimpses of the beauty within. Some shook their heads at this picture, they could not understand it, they saw no moral in it, the title of it fright- ened them, and there was a feeling that there must be some mysterious wickedness at the bottom of it alL As a matter of fact, nothing could be more innocently lovely. The picture still re- mains almost unique among Burne- Joness works; he has never tried to rival its brilliant patchwork of color. In the Angels of Creation the col- ors shift and play into one another, now Study of a Head Sleeping. EDWARD B LIP NE-JO NES. 145 like the feathers on a doves neck, and now like the reflections in a stream. In the Chant dAmour and King Cophetua the colors are more richly blended and dif- fused, in the manner of the Vene- tians, but in this picture the strong, pure spaces of color in dress and cap stand detached as in stained glass, or in the earlier pictures of the Italian school, which inherited their system of colors from mosaics and frescoes. This, 1878, was also the year of Le Chant dAmour and Pan and Psyche; of panels of Day and Night, and the four Seasons, and a curious dec- orative panel of Perseus and the Graiae an experiment in wood and metal, which was much criti- cised and has not been repeated. In 1879 appeared the celebrated An- nunciation; in 1880, the Golden Stairs, in which a decorative mo- tive was elaborated into a picture almost as sweet and delicate in its color as a white lily. The Wheel of Fortune, the finest of his alle- gorical conceptions, marks the year 1883. The Cophetua, at the Grosvenor of 1884, the Depths of the Sea, at the IRoyal Academy, in 1886 (his first and last contribution to Burlington House) ; the Gar- den of Pan, at the Grosvenor in 1887, were the most important works exhibited in these years. The opening of the new gallery in 1888, was made memorable by the contributions of Burne-Jones, which comprised three large and very characteristic pictures. One represented Dana~ watching the building of the brazen tower in which she is to be immured, and two were part of the series from the Perseus legend. In the latter, the fl,~,ure of Andromeda is seen full- length back and front, and it is probably the most perfect example of the authors draughtsmanship of the nude. A drawing in the gallery from the far robuster model, showed at once the artists mastery of draw- ing, and the process through which nature had to go in its translation to of Doom we see Perseus in his flashing the Burne-Joness ideal. In the Rock armor, arrested, as he flies by on his san- Flamma Vestalis. (From the oil picture. By permission of the owner, Sir Horace Davey.) 146 EDWARD BURNE-JONES. deavoring to entrap Per~ seus in its huge scaleless coils, while he ~eizes the opportunity to plunge his sword into some vital part. In these pictures one is perhaps more struck than usual by the deliberately decorative character of the work, and the stilln~ss of a visionary world in which the fiercest conflicts hap- pen, as it were, to slow music. We cannot follow IVIr. Burne-Jones step by step through later years. It must suffice to notice his grand series of pictures on the legend of The Briar Rose, or Sleeping Beau- ty, the masterpiece of his lighter fancy. The subject had always been a favorite with him. It had formed the theme of a series of tiles for Mr. Birket Fos- ters house at Whitby, of a set of small oil pictures in 1871, of a larger set in 187374, and in 1890 the four still larger pictures were exhibited at Messrs. Agnews Galleries, and have drawn there and else- where their thousands of admirers. This subject seems to be one peculiarly congenial to the genius of the artist. The trance-like suspense which character- izes all his conceptions here becomes the positive subject. In this mysteri- ous wood all animate things sleep, as though their motion had been ar- rested by a flood of hon- eyed amber. The spell seems even to smite the The Wheel of Fortune. from the oil picture. By permission young knight, as in the (Photographed by Henry nixon, first picture he enters the of the owner, Ii. H. Benson, Esq.) wood strewn with the bod- dals of swiftness, by the sight of the ies of his ill - fated predecessors. In doomed maid chained to the rock; in the next picture we are shown the aged the Doom Fulfilled we see the com- king, his white beard flowing to the bat itself, the monster ineffectually en- ground, surrounded by his sleeping EDWARD BURNE-JONES. 147 counsellors; in the next, the Garden Court, where the serving maidens in ~ various positions of elegance sleep their long sleep; and last, the bower of the princess herself who is just awaken- ing to the kiss of her brave lover; from beginning to end it is not only a dream, but a dream of dreams. Could any subject be more suited to the arch- dreamer of the nineteenth century? III. As we have already seen, the more realistic tenets of the modern Pre- Raphaclites are incompatible with the art of Burne-Jones. The doc- trines of non-selection and contempt of composition are both utterly con- trary to his artistic nature, for there never was a more fastidious select- or in this world, and all his designs show the utmost care, and often great ingenuity, in composition. On the other hand, no artist has been more impressed with the work of the real precursors of Raphael; with their na~vetti of conception, their di- rectness of suggestion, their spirit- ual feeling, and their refined sense of decorative beauty. There is a fas- cination and a romance about the work of such artists as Botticelli and Piero de Cosimo, Piero della Francesca and Matteo da Siena, in spite of, and perhaps partly in con- sequence of, the imperfection of their ideals, and the tentative nature of their effortsa fascination which is altogether lost in the triumphaut mastery of Raphael and Michel An- gelo. But Mr. Burne-Jones has not only studied one period of art nor the art of only one country. If his draperies sometimes swell like those of Botticelli, they are at others rigid as the Byzantines ; he makes them as broad as Giottos or as crinkly as Mantegnas, whichever style may be most suited to the idea of his de ~ sign. The rich reflections of many- colored garments in brimming water which we see in the Baptism of Christ in Piero della Francescas picture in the National Gallery, may have suggested the very differ- ent picture of the Mirror of Venus. Piero de Cosimos pathetic Cepha- lus and Procris, in the same gallery, is a relation, but a very distant one, to his Pan and Daphne. But his debts do not end with the Pre-Raphaclites: Le Chant dAmour speaks of the gorgeous palette of Titian, and the Memorial Tablet to Lady Lyttleton, in colored glaoo. (In the American Protestant church at Rome.) spirit of Giorgione seems to hover round the lovers in the Garden of Pam Luini and Leonardo rise to one~ s mind as one looks at the Depths of the Sea, and the Wheel of For- tune cannot be passed without a thought of Michel Angelo. Every- where he has found something akin to himself; some music of color, or rhythm of line; some fall of robe or lift of foot ; which will help him to realize the concep- tions of his own imagina- tion and express the desire of his own soul. This is not plagiarism, it is not even imitation, except in the sense that all great artists are imi- tators. As Raphael absorbed in his own developed personality all the virtue his 148 genius could assimilate of Giotto and Perugino, of Leonardo and Andrea del Sarto, of Masaccio and Michel Angelo; as Turner absorbed Claude and Yande- velde, Cozens and Girtin; so Burne- Jones has drunk from all the sources which could feed his artistic nature, from the mosaics of Ravenna to the de- signs of iRossetti; and now in his ma- turity he stands out as distinct in his personality, if not as great, as any of his precursors. There is indeed an eclecticism which kills. This kind, unconfined and un- controlled by any strong personal pas- sion, seeks to fabricate beauty by piec- ing together fragments of the dead ideals of other minds. But there is also an eclecticism which nourishes, and this is the eclecticism of Burne- Jones, who, from his first sketch to th~ pictures now upon his easel, has been absorbed by the desire to present in perfect form the children of his own Study of a Child. Portrait of Same-Jones. (Photographed from life, about 1885, by F. uollyer.) -1 0 The Backgammon P!ayers. (From a water-color drawing. By permission of Lord Battersea.) ENGRAVED BY E. H. DELORME. The Annunciation. (From the oil picture. By permission of the owner, the Earl of Carlisle.) ENGRAVED BY F. N. KIND. The Golden Stairs. (From the oil picture. By permission of the owner, Lord Battersea.) ENGRAV~r., -sear rIILINSM. 152 EDWAPD BLIRNE-JONES. imagination, and to clothe them with the most lovely raiment he could de- vise. For this he has had to wait and Like the lives of all artists devote to their work, that of Burne-Jones is marked by few stirring incidents. He U ne I. (From a cartoon for a mosaic in the American Protestant chnrch at Rome.) watch and work, for this he has ran- sacked not only nature but art, and the result is that he has created a new world with the breath of his own gen- ius, a world wondrously beautiful and beautifully wondrous. has not been without honor in his own or other countries, though it has been slow, fitful, and inadequate. One of ~*~- the earliest and most grateful recogni- tions of his genius was from the college which lie had left to answer the call o EDWARD BURNE-JONES. Art. His fellowship at Exeter was fol- lowed in 1881 by the honorary degree of D.C.L. The Beguiling of Mer- lin had been sent to the Paris Exhi- bition of 1878, and his reputation was so great in France in 1882, that he was asked by the French Government to represent Great Britain at the Interna- tional Exhibition of Contemporary Art, Sir Frederick Leighton, President of the Royal Academy, as his sole col- league. This honor he was unable to accept. In 1889 he was awarded a first- class medal at the Paris International Exhibition, and in 1890 ~, was decorated with the Le gion of Honor. In Amer- ica he is perhaps more ap- preciated than any other living English artist. Some of his finest stained- glass windows are those at Boston, Longwood, Mass., and Newport, and the grand designs for the mo- saics in the apse of the American Protestant Church at Rome must rank among his most remarkable achieve- ments. In England he is widely known and greatly honored, and the recent ex- hibition of his works at the New Gallery was a triumph such as only is allowed to few artists in their life- time. A low, perhaps, but sound, test of his appreciation by his countrymen is the large prices which his works fetch whenever they appear in a public auc- tion-room. At the Leyland and Gra- ham sales the large Mirror of Venus, the Beguiling of Merlin, and Le Chant dAmour were sold at sums ranging between three and four thou- sand pounds; and the Laus Veneris would not be parted with by its pres- ent owner for a much larger sum, if for any. It is a general theme for regret that Burne-Jones has not received the highest honors of the Royal Academy. He accepted the offer of an Associ- ateship in 1885, but has only once exhibited at Bur- lington House, and has recently resigned his asso- ciateship. We need not inquire here where the fault, if any, lies, but it is certain that the loss is to the Academy rather than to the artist. For many years Burne - Jones has lived in an old- fashioned house in North End Road, once inhabited by Samuel Richardson, the novelist. It lies between Old Kensington and Hammer- smith, a district till recently occupied by few houses and many gardens. A large, flat, green tract it was, where the dweller in the metropolis could take a walk and think that lie was in some- thing like the country. Now the whole aspect of the neighborhood is changed, and the creation of the populous sub- urb of West Kensington has gradually hemmed in Richardsons old house, un- til the present occupant, instead of fair open space of field and sky, has only his own and the garden of his neigh- bor as a barrier between him and the endless rows of jerry-built houses. If he has any pleasure in the view from his own windows, it is chiefly one of good-humored malice as he thinks of the baffled contractors who covet the space occupied by his green garden. But the alteration in its surroundings does not affect the work that goes on within, or dull the imagination of the dreamer who dwells there; and day by day, al- most hour by hour, adds something to his lifes achievement, something to the poetic endowment of the world. VOL. XV.16 Studies of Children. JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. By George W. Cable. VIII. SEVEN YEARS OF SUNSHINE. P GETS and painters make darkness stand for oblivion. But for evil things or sad there is no obliv- ion like sunshine. The next day was hot, blue, and fra- grant. John rose so late that he had to sit up in front of his breakfast alone. He asked the maid near by if she thought his father would be home soon. She reckoned so. I wish he would be home in a hour, he mused, aloud. I wish he would be on the mountain road right now. When he stepped down and started away she crouched before him. Whah you bound fuh, ole genle- man, lookin so sawt o funny-sad? I dunno. Wat you gwine do, boss? I dunno. Well, caynt you kiss me, Mist I- dunno? He paid the toll and passed out to his play. With an old bayonet fixed on a stick he fell to killing Yankeescol- ored troops. Pressing them into the woods he charged, yelling, and came out upon the mountain road that led far down to the pike. Here a new im- pulse took him and he moved down this road to form a junction with his father. For some time the way was comparatively leveL By and by he came to heavier timber and deeper and steeper descents. He went ever more and more loiteringly, for his father did not appear. He thought of turning back, yet his longing carried him for- ward. He was tired, but his mother did not like him to walk long distances when he was tired, so it wouldnt be right to ,turn back. He decided to wait for his father and ride home. Meantime he would go to the next turn in the road and look. He looked in vain. And so at the nextthe next the next. He went slowly, for his feet were growing tender. Sometimes he almost caught a butterfly. Some- times he slew more Yankees. Always he talked to himself with a soft bum- bling like a bees. But at last he ceased even this and sat down at the edge of the stony road ready to cry. His bosom had indeed begun to heave, when in an instant all was changed. Legs forgot their wea- riness, the heart its dismay, for just across the road, motionless beside a hollow log, what should he see but a cotton - tail rabbit. As he stealthily reached for his weapon the cotton-tail took two slow hops and went into the log. Charge bayonets ! pat-pat-pat slam! and the stick rattled in the hole, the deadly iron at one end and the deadly boy at the other. And yet nothing was impaled. Sin-~ ~ gular! He got his eyes to the hole and glared in, but although it was full of daylight from a larger hole at the other Y

JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. By George W. Cable. VIII. SEVEN YEARS OF SUNSHINE. P GETS and painters make darkness stand for oblivion. But for evil things or sad there is no obliv- ion like sunshine. The next day was hot, blue, and fra- grant. John rose so late that he had to sit up in front of his breakfast alone. He asked the maid near by if she thought his father would be home soon. She reckoned so. I wish he would be home in a hour, he mused, aloud. I wish he would be on the mountain road right now. When he stepped down and started away she crouched before him. Whah you bound fuh, ole genle- man, lookin so sawt o funny-sad? I dunno. Wat you gwine do, boss? I dunno. Well, caynt you kiss me, Mist I- dunno? He paid the toll and passed out to his play. With an old bayonet fixed on a stick he fell to killing Yankeescol- ored troops. Pressing them into the woods he charged, yelling, and came out upon the mountain road that led far down to the pike. Here a new im- pulse took him and he moved down this road to form a junction with his father. For some time the way was comparatively leveL By and by he came to heavier timber and deeper and steeper descents. He went ever more and more loiteringly, for his father did not appear. He thought of turning back, yet his longing carried him for- ward. He was tired, but his mother did not like him to walk long distances when he was tired, so it wouldnt be right to ,turn back. He decided to wait for his father and ride home. Meantime he would go to the next turn in the road and look. He looked in vain. And so at the nextthe next the next. He went slowly, for his feet were growing tender. Sometimes he almost caught a butterfly. Some- times he slew more Yankees. Always he talked to himself with a soft bum- bling like a bees. But at last he ceased even this and sat down at the edge of the stony road ready to cry. His bosom had indeed begun to heave, when in an instant all was changed. Legs forgot their wea- riness, the heart its dismay, for just across the road, motionless beside a hollow log, what should he see but a cotton - tail rabbit. As he stealthily reached for his weapon the cotton-tail took two slow hops and went into the log. Charge bayonets ! pat-pat-pat slam! and the stick rattled in the hole, the deadly iron at one end and the deadly boy at the other. And yet nothing was impaled. Sin-~ ~ gular! He got his eyes to the hole and glared in, but although it was full of daylight from a larger hole at the other Y JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 155 end, he could see no sign of life. It baffled comprehension. But so did it defy contradiction. There was but one resource: to play the rabbit was still there and only to be got out by rat- tling the bayonet every other moment and repeating, in a sepulchral voice, IIIm gwine to have yo meat fo diunch! He had been doing this for some time when all at once his blood froze as another voice, fifteen times as big as his, said, in his very ear IIIm gwine to have yo meat fo dinneh. He dropped half over, speechless, and beheld standing above him, nine- teen feet high as well as he could esti- mate hastily, a Yankee captain mount- ed and in full uniform. John leaped up and remembered he was in gray. What are you doing here all alone, Shorty? I dunno. Who are you? l~That~s your name? I dunno. The Captain moved as if to draw his revolver, but brought forth instead a large yellow apple. Then did John confess who he was and why there. The Captain did as much on his part. He had risen with the morning star to do an errand beyond Widewood, and was now getting back to Suez. This very dawn he had made Judge Marchs acquaintance beside his broken wagon, and had seen him ride toward Suez to begin again the repair of his disasters. Would the small Confederate like to ride behind him? Very quickly John gave an arm and was struggling up behind the saddle. The Captain touched the childs back. Owch! Why, whats the matter? did I hurt you? No, sir. The horse took his new burden un- kindly, plunged and danced. Afraid? asked the Captain. Johns eyes sparkled merrily and he shook his head. Youre a pretty brave boy, arent you? said the stranger, but John shook his head again. I ll bet you. are, and a tolable good boy, too, arent you? No, sir, Im not a good boy, Im bad. Im a very bad boy, indeed. The horseman laughed. I dont mistrust but youre good enough. Oh, no. Im not good. Im wick- ed! Im noisy! I make my mas head ache, every day! I usent to be so wicked when I was a little shaver. I used to be a shaver, did you know that? But now Im a boy. Thats because Im eight. Im a boy and Im wicked. Im awful wicked, and Im getting worse. I whistle. Did you think I could whistle? Well, I can. There! did you hear that? Its wicked to whistle in the houseto whistle loudin the houseits sinful. Some- times I whistle in the housesome- times. He grew still and fell to think- ing of his mother, and how her cheek would redden with something she called sorrow at his shameless companioning with the wearer of a blue uniform. But he continued to like his new friend; he was so companionably low flung. Do you know Jeff-Jack? he asked. But the Captain had not the honor. Well, he captures things. Hes brave. Hes dreadful brave. No! Aw! you just want to scare me! So is Major Garnet. Did you ever see Major Garnet? Well, if you see him you mustnt make him mad. Id be afraid for you to make him mad. Why, hows that? I dunno, said Johnnie, very ab- stractedly. As they went various questions came up, and by and by John discoursed on the natural badness of black folks especially the yellow varietywith im- perfections of reasoning almost as droll as the soft dragging of his vowels. Time passed so pleasantly that when they came into the turnpike and saw his father coming across the battle-field with two other horsemen, his good spirits hardly had room to rise any higher. They rather felL The Judge had again chanced upon the company of Major Garnet and Jeff-Jack Ravenel, and it disturbed John perceptibly for three such men to find him riding be- hind a Yankee. It was a double surprise for him to see, first, with what courtesy they 156 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. treated the blue-coat, and then how soon they bade him good-day. The Federal had smilingly shown a flask. You wouldnt fire on a flag of truce, would you? I never drink, said Garnet. And I always take too much, re- sponded Jeff-Jack. I think we have spoken of Johns slumbers being dreamless. A child can afford to sleep without dreaming, he has plenty of dreams without sleep- hag. No need to tell what days, weeks, months, of sunlit, forest-shaded, bird- serenaded, wide-awake dreaming passed over this ones wind - tossed locks be- tween the ages of eight and fifteen. Small wonder that he dreamed. Much of the stuff that fables and fairy tales are made of was the actual fur- nishment of his visible world un- broken leagues of lofty timber that had never heard the ring of an axe; syl- van labyrinths where the buck and doe were only half afraid; copses alive with small game; rare openings where the squatters wooden ploughshare lay for- gotten; dark chasms scintillant with the treasures of the chemist, if not of the lapidary; outlooks that opened upon great seas of billowing forest, whence blue mountains peered up, sank and rose again like ocean monsters at play; glens where the she-bear suckled her drowsing cubs to the plash of yeasty waterfalls that leapt and whimpered to be in human service, but wherein the otter played all day unscared; crags where the eagle nested; defiles that echoed the howls of wolves un- hunted, though the very stones cried out their open secret of immeasurable wealth; narrow vales where the moun- tain cabin sent up its blue thread of smoke, and in its lonely patch strong weeds and emaciated corn and cotton pushed one another down among the big clods; and vast cliffs from whose bushy brows the armed moonshiner watched the bridle-path below. These dreams of other childrens story books were Johns realities. And these were books to him, as well, while Chesterfield went unread, and other things and conditions, not of nature and her seclusions, but vibrant with human energies and strifes, were mak- ing, unheeded of him, his world and his fate. A little boys life does right to loiter. But if we loiter with him here, we are likely to find our eyes held ever by the one picture: Johns gifted mother, in family group, book in her lap husbands hand on her right shoulder John leaning against her left side. Let us try leaving him for a time. And indeed, we may do the same as to Jeff-Jack iRaveneL As he had told Barbara he would, he made his residence in Suez. A mess-mate, a graceless, gallant fel- low, who at the wars end had fallen, dying, into his arms, had sent by him a last word of penitent love to his moth- er, an aged widow. She lived in Suez, and when Ravenel brought this message to herfrom whom marriage had torn all her daughters and death her only sonshe accepted his offer, based on a generous price, to take her sons room as her sole boarder and lodger. Thus, without further effort, he became the stay of her home and the heir of her simple affections. Ix LA1JNCELOT HALLWAY. GENERAL HALLIDAY was a distant cou- sin of Mrs. Garnet. He had com- manded the brigade which included Garnets battalion; and had won fame. Garnet, who felt himself undervalued by Halliday, said this fame had been won by show rather than by merit. And in truth, Halliday was not so much a man of genuine successes as of an audacity that stopped just short of the fantastical, and kept him perpetually interesting. Launcelots failures, said Garnet, make a finer show than most men~ 5 successes. Hed rather shine without succeeding, than succeed without shin- ing. The moment the war ended, Halliday hurried back to his plantation, the largest in Blackland. This countys sole crop was cotton, and negroes two- thirds of its population. His large familymuch looked up tohad called ~L I w JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 157 it home, though often away from it, seeking social stir at the State capital and elsewhere. On his return from the war, the General brought with him a Northerner, an officer in the very command to which he had surrendered. Just then, you may remember, when Southerners saw only ruin in their vast agricultural system, many Northerners thought they saw a new birth. They felt the poetry of Dixies long summers, the plantation lifelJncle Toms Cabin and fancied that with Uncle Toms good-will and Northern money and methods, there was quick fortune for them. Halliday echoed these bright predictions with brave buoyancy and perfect sincerity, and sold the conqueror his entire estate. Then he moved his family to New Orleans, and issued his card to his many friends, announcing himself prepared to receive and sell any shipments of cotton, and fill any orders for supplies, with which they might en- trust him. The Governments pardon, on which this fine rapidity was hypothe- cated, came promptly through a par- don broker, said Garnet. But the Generals celerity was re- sented. He boarded at the St. Charles, and, famous, sociable, and fond of poli- tics, came at once into personal contact with the highest Federal authorities in New Orleans. The happy dead earnest with which he accepted the situation and harmonized with these men, sorely offended his old friends and drew the fire of the newspapers. Even Judge March demurred. President Garnet, John heard the beloved voice in front of him say, gentlemen may cry Peace, Peace, but there can be too much peace, sir! The General came out in an open letter, probably not so sententiously as we condense it here, but in sub- stance to this effect: The king never dies; citizenship never ceases; a be- reaved citizenship has no right to put on expensive mourning, and linger through a dressy widowhood before it marries again. . . . There are men who, when their tree has been cut down even with the ground, will try to sit in the shade of the stump. . . Such men are those who, now that slavery is gone, still cling to a civil order based on the old plantation system. They are like a wood-sawyer robbed of his saw-horse and trying to saw wood in his lap. All these darts struck and stung, but a little soft mud, such as any editor could supply, would soon have drawn out the stingbut for an additional line or two, which gave poisonous and mortal offence. Blackland and Clear- water replied in a storm of indignation. The Suez Courier bade him keep out of Dixie on peril of his life. He came, nevertheless, canvassing for business, and was not molested, but got very few shipments. What he mainly secured were the flippant pledges of such as required the largest possible advances indefinitely ahead of the least possible cotton. Also a few Yankees shipped to him. Genl Halliday, howdy, sah? It was dusk of the last day of this tour. The voice came from a dark place on the sidewalk in Suez. Dont you know me, Genl? You often used to see me an Majo Gyarnet togetheh; yass, sah. My names Cornelius Leg- gett, sah. Why, Cornelius, to be sure! I thought I smelt whiskey. What can I do for you? Genl, I has the honor to espress to you, sah, my thanks faw the way you espress yoseff in yo letteh on the con- cerns an prospecs o we coloed people, sah. An likewise, theys thousands would like to espress the same espres- sions, sah. Oh, thats all right. Genl, I represents a quantity of ow people whats move down into Black- land fum Rosemont and other hill places. They espress theyseves to me as they agent that they like to confawm some prearrangement with you, sah. Are you all on one plantation? Oh, no, sah, they aint ezacly on no plantation. Me? Oh, I been a-goin to the Freedman Bureau school in Pulaski City as they agent. Sah? Yass, sah, at they espenses p-he! They? They mosly strowed round in de woods in pole cabins an bresh ar- bors.Sah? 158 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. Yass, sah, livin on game an fish. Sali? Yass, sab. But they espress they doubts that de Govement aint goin to give em no fahms, an they like to comprise with you, Gen1, ef you please, sab, to git holt o some fahms o they own, you know; sawt o payin fawm bes way they kin; yass, sah. As you say in yo letteb, betteh give m lans than keep em vagabones; yass, sah. Betteh no terms than none at all; yass, sah. And so on. From this colloquy resulted the Ne- gro farm-village of Leggettstown. In 186668 it grew up on the old Haffi- day place, which had reverted to the General by mortgage. Neatest among its whitewashed cabins, greenest with gourd-vines, and always the nearest paid for, was that of the Reverend Lev- iticus Wisdom, his wife, Virginia, and her step-daughter, Johanna. In the fall of 1869 General Halliday came back to Suez to live. His wife, a son, and daughter had died, two daugh- ters had married and gone to the North- west, others were here and there. A daughter of sixteen was with himthey two alone. The ebb-tide of war values had left him among the shoals; his black curls were full of frost, his bank box was stuffed with plantation mort- gages, his notes were protested. He had come to operate, from Suez as a base, several estates surrendered to him by debtors and entrusted to his management by his creditors. This he wished to do on what seemed to him an original plan, of which Leggettstown was only a clumsy sketch, a plan based on his belief in the profound economic value of villages of small freeholding farmers, my dear sir! Its the natural crystal of free con- ditions! John heard him say in the post-office corner of Weed & Ushers drug-store. Empty words to John: He noted only the noble air of the speaker and his hearers. Every man of the group had been a soldier. The General showed much. more polish than the others, but they all had the strong graces of horsemen and masters, and many a subtle sign of civilization and cult heated and hammered through centuries of search for good govern- ment and honorable fortune. John stopped and gazed. Come on, son, said Judge March, almost sharply. John began to back away. There ! exclaimed the father as his son sat down suddenly in a box of sawdust and cigar-stumps. He led him away to clean him off, adding, You hadnt ought to stare at people as you walk away fum them, son. With rare exceptions, the Generals daily hearers were silent, but resolute. They did not analyze. Their motives were their feelings; their feelings were their traditions, and their traditions were back in the old entrenchments. The time for large changes had slipped by. Haggard, of the Courier, thought it equally just and damning to re- print from the Generals odiously re- membered letter of four years earlier. If we cant make our Negroes white, let us make them as white as we can,~~ and sign it Social Equality Launce- lot. Parson Tombs, sweet, aged, and beloved, prayed from his pulpitwith the preface, Thou knowest thy ser- vant has never mixed up politics and religion that the machinations of them who seek to join together what God hath put asunder may come to naught Halliday laughed. Why, Im only a private citizen trying to retrieve my private fortunes. But These are times when a man cant choose whether hell be public or pri- vate! said Garnet, and the Courier made the bankrupt cotton factor public every day. It quoted constantly from the unpardonable letter, and charged him with inflaming the basest cupid.- ity o~ our Helots, and so on, and on. But the General, with his silver-shot curls dancing half-way down his shoul- ders, a six-shooter under each skirt of his black velvet coat, and a knife down the back of his neck, went on pushing his private enterprise. Private enterprise! cried Garnet. His jackals will run him for Con- gress. And they didagainst Garnet. The times were seething. Halliday, viewing matters impartially in the clear, calm light of petroleum torches, JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 159 justified Congress in acts which Garnet termed the spume of an insane re- venge; while Garnet, with equal calm- ness of judgment, under other petro- leum torches, gloried in the masterly inactivity of Dixies whitest and best which Launcelot denounced as a fool- ish and wicked political strike. All the corruptions bred by both sides in a gi- gantic war and before it in all the crudeness of the countrys first century were pouring down and spouting up upon Dixie their rain of pitch and ashes. Negroes swarmed about the polls, elbowed their masters, and chal- lenged their votes. Ragged negresses talked loudly along the sidewalks, of one another as ladies, and of their mistresses as women. White men of fortune and station were masking, night-riding, whipping, and killing; and blue cavalry rattled again through the rocky streets of Suez. Such was life when dashing Fannie Halliday joined the choir in Parson Tombss church, becoming at once its leading spirit, and John March sud- denly showed a deep interest in the Scriptures. He joined her Sunday- school class. x. FANNIE Was sixteenshe said; had black eyes the dilating kind was pretty, and seductively subtle. Jeff-Jack liked her much. They met at Rosemont, where he found her spending two or three days, on perfect terms with Barbara, and treated with noticeable -gravity, though with full kindness, by Mrs. Gar- net, whom she called, warmly, Cousin Rose. Ravenel had pushed forward only two or three pawns of conversation when she moved at one step from news to politics. She played with the ugly sub- ject girlishly, even frivolously, though not insipidlyat least to a young mans ~ notionriding its winds and waves like a sea-bird. Politics, she said, seemed to her a kind of human weather, no more her business and no less than any other kind. She never blamed the public, or any party for this or that; did he? And when he said he did not, her eyes danced and she declared she disliked him less. Why, we might as well scold the rain or the wind as the public, she in- sisted. What publics do, or think, or say, or wantare merelyI dont know sort o chemical values. What makes you smile that way? Did I smile? Youre deep, he said. Youre smiling again, she replied, and, turning, asked Garnet a guileless question on a certain fierce matter of the hour. He answered it with rash confidence, and her next question was a checkmate. Oh, understand, he cried, in reply; we dont excuse these dreadful prac- tices. Yes, you do. You-all dont do any- thing elseexcept Mr. Ravenel; he ap- proves them barefaced. Garnet tried to retort, but she laughed him down. When she was gone, Shes as rude as a roustabout, he said to his wife. For all this she was presently the belle of Suez. She invaded its small and ill - assorted society and held it, a restless, but conquered province. Johns father marked with joy his son s sudden regularity in Sunday-schooL If his wife was less pleased it was be- cause to her all punctuality was a per- sonal affront; it was some time before she discovered the cause to be Miss Fannie Halliday. By that time half the young men in town were in love with Fannie, and three-fourths of them in abject fear of her wit; yet, in true Southern fashion, casting themselves in its way with Hindoo abandon. Her father and she had apartments in Tom Herseys Swanee Hotel. Mr. Ravenel called often. She entered Montrose Academy in order to re- main sixteen, she told him. This in- stitution was but a year or two old. It had been founded, at Ravenels sugges- tion, as a sort o little sister to Rose- mont. Its principal, Miss Kinsingtou, with her sister, belonged to one of Dixies best and most unfortunate fam- ilies. You dont bow down to Miss Grun- dy, something prompted Ravenel to 160 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. say, as he and Fannie came slowly back from a gallop in the hills. Yes, I do. I only love to tease her now and then. I go to the races, play cards, waltz, talk slang, and read novels. But when I do bow down to her I bow away down. Why, at Montrose, I actu- ally talk on serious subjects! Do you touch often on religion? You never do to the gentlemen I bring to see you. Why, Mr. Ravenel, I dont under- stand you. What should I know about religion? You seem to forget that I belong to the choir. Well, politics, then. Dont you ever try to make a convert even in that? I talk politics for fun only. She toyed with her whip. Id tell you something if I thought youd never tell. Its this: Women have no conscience in their intellects. No, and the young gentlemen you bring to see me take after their mothers. Ill try to bring some other kind. Oh, no! They suit me. Theyre so easily pleased. I tell them they have a great insight into female character. Dont you tell them I told you ! Do you remember having told me the same thing? She dropped two wicked eyes and said, with sweet gravity, I wish it were not so true of you. How did you like the sermon last evening? The cunning flirt! thought he that night, as his kneeling black boy drew off his boots. Not so thought John that same hour. Servants delinquencies had kept him from Sunday-school that morning and made him late at church. His mother had stayed at home with her headache and her husband. Her son was hesi- tating at the church-yard gate, alone and heavy-hearted, when suddenly he saw a thing that brought his heart into his throat and made a certain old mor- tification start from its long sleep with a great inward cry. Two shabby black men passed by on plough-mules, and between them, on a poor, smart horse, all store clothes, watch-chain, and shoe- blacking, rode the president of the Zion Freedom Homestead League, Mr. Cornelius Leggett, of Leggettstown. John went in. Fannie, seemingly fresh from heaven, stood behind the melo- deon and sang the repentant prodigals resolve; and he, in raging shame for the stripes once dealt him and the lie they had scared from him at the time, and the many he had told since to cover that one, shed such tears that he had to steal out, and, behind a tree in the rear of the church, being again without a handkerchief, dry his cheeks on his sleeves. And now, in his lowly bed, his eyes swam once more as the girls voice re- turned to his remembrance: Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son. He left his bed and stood beside the higher one. But the father slept. Even if he should waken him, he felt that he could only weep and tell noth- ing, and so he went back and lay down again. With the morning, confession was impossible. He thought rather of revenge, and was hot with the ferocious plans of a boys helplessness. XL A BLEEDING HEART. ONE night early in November, when nearly all IRosemonts lights were out and a brisk wet wind was flirting and tearing the yellowed leaves of the oaks, the windows of Mrs. Garnets room were still bright. She sat by a small fire with Barbara at her knee. It had been election-day and the college was silent with chagrin. Is pop a - going to get elected, mom-a? I dont think he is, my child. But you hope he is, dont you? Listen, murmured the mother. Barbara heard a horses feet. Pres- ently her fathers step was in the hall and on the stairs. He entered, kissed wife and child, and sat down with a look first of care and fatigue, and then a proud smile. Well, Launcelots elected. A solemn defiance came about his mouth, but on his brow was dejection and distress. You know, Rose, he said, that for myself, I dont care. 161 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. She made no reply. He leaned on the mantelpiece. My heart bleeds for our people! All they ask is the God-given right to a pure government. Their petition is spurned! Rose tears shone in his eyes I this day saw the sabres and bayonets of the government of which Washington was once the head, shielding the scum of the earth while it swarmed up and voted honor and virtue out of office! The handkerchief he snatched from his pocket brought out three or four writ- ten papers. He cast them upon the fire. One, under a chair, he overlooked. Barbara got it laterjust the thing to carry in her reticule when she went calling on herself. She could not read its bad writing, but it served all the better for that. Next evening, at teaback again from Suez Wife, did you see a letter in blue ink in your room this morning, with some pencil figures of my own across the face? If it was with those papers I burned its all right, but Id like to know. His unconcern was overdone. Barbara was silent. She had bat- tered the reticules inner latch with a stone. To get the paper out, the latch would have to be broken. Silence saved it. The election was over, but the tur- moil only grew. Mere chemicals, did Fannie call these incidents and condi- tions? But they were corrosives and caustics dropped blazing hot upon white mens bare hands and black mens bare feet. The ex-master spurned po- litical fellowship with his slave, at every cost; the ex-slave laid taxes, stole them, and was murdered. Make way for robbery, he cries, drawled iRavenel; makes way for rob- bery and dies. Mr. Ravenel, said Judge March, I find no place for me, sir. I lament one policy and loathe the other. I need not say what distress of mind I suffer. I doubt not we are all doing that, sir. No, said Jeff-Jack, whittling a straw. Ill tell you what it is, Mr. IRavenel, said Fannie Halliday; its a war be- tween decency in the wrong, and vul- garity in the right. Corneliuss explanation in the House was more elaborate. This, Mr. Speaker, are that great warfare predicated in the New Testa- ment, betwix the Republicans an sin- nehs on one side an the Phair-i- sees on the other. The white-liners, they is the Phair-i-sees! They is the whited sculp- tors befo which, notinstanin all they chiselin, the Republicans an~ sinnehs enters fust into the kingdom! So, for two more years, and John was fifteen. Then the Judge decided to explain to him, confidentially, their long poverty. Daphne, dear he was going down into Blacklandif you see no objec- tion Ill take son with me.Why, no, dear, not both on one hoss, youre quite right; that wouldnt be kind to son. A merciful man, Powhatan, is mer- ciful to Yass, deah; Oh, I had the hoss in mind too; indeed I had! Do you know, my deah, I can tend to business betteh when I have ow son along? Im gettn to feel like as if Id left myself behine when hes not with me. Youve always been so, Judge March. Her smile was sad. Oh! no, I mustnt advise. Take him along if youre determined to. XII. JOHN THINKS HE 15 NOT AFRAID. Sox, said the father as they rode, I reckon youve often wondered why, owning ow hunded thousand an sixty acres, we should appeah so sawt o re- duced; havent you? Sir? The father repeated the question, and John said, dreamily: No, sir. Well, son, Ill tell you, though Id rather youd not mention itin school, faw instanceif we can eveh raise money to send you to school. Its because, in a sense, we a-got so much lan. Manys the time I could a-sole pahts of it, an refused, only be- cause that particulah sale wouldnt a-met the object fo which the whole tract has always been held. It was yo 162 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. dear grandfathers ambition, an his fathers befo him, to fill these lans with a great population, pospous an happy. We neveh sole an acre, but we neveh hel one back in a spirit o lan specula- tion, you understan? Sir ?Jyes, sir. The plan want adapted to a slave State. I see that now. I dont say slavery was wrong, but slave an free labor couldnt thrive side by side. But, now, son, you know, all labors free an the times come faw a change. You see, son, thats where Gen1 Hallidays village projec is bad. His villages are boun han an foot to cotton fahmin an cant bring forth the indus- tries; but now, without concealin any- thing fum him or anybodyof cose we dont want to do thatif we can get enough of his best village residenters fum Leggettstown an Libbetyville to come up an take lan in Widewood faw we can give it to em an gain by it, you know; an a site or two faw a church aw school why, then, you know, when capitalists come up an look at ow minin lanswhy, first thing you know, well have mines an mills an stoes evy which away! They met and passed three horse- men armed to the teeth and very tipsy. Why, if to-morrow aint election- day agin! Why, I quite fo gotten that!~ At the edge of the town two more armed riders met them. Judge March, good-mawnin, seh. All stopped. Goin to Suez? We goin on through into Black- land. I dont think you can, seh. Ow pickets hold Swanee River bridge. Yes, sah, ow pickets. Why, ow pickets, theyre there. Twould be strange if they wantthree hunded Blackland county niggehs marchin on the town to burn it. Is that really the news? Thats the latest, seh. We after reinfocements. They moved on. Judge March rode slowly toward Suez. John rode beside him. In a moment the Judge halted again, lifted his head, and listened. A long cheer floated to them, attenuated by the dis- tance. I thought it was a charge, but I reckon its ony a meetn of ow people in the square. He glanced at his son, who was listening, ashy pale. Son, we aint goin into town. Im going, but you neednt. You can ride back a piece an wait faw me, aw faw further news whichll show you what to do. Ony dont in any case come into town. This aint yo fight, son, an you no need to get mixed in with it. You hear, son? I the lad tried twice before he could speak I want to go with you. Why, no, son, you no need to go. You aint fittn to go. Yo too young. You a-trembling now fum head to foot. Aint you got a chill? N-no, sir. The boy shivered visi- bly. Ive got a pain in my side, but it dontdont hurt. I want to go with you. But, son, theres goin to be fightn. Im goin to try to pvent it, but I shant be able to. Why, if you was to get hurt, whod eveh tell yo poor deali mother? I couldnt. I jest couldnt! You betteh go long home, son. I c-c-cant do it, father. Why, air you that sick, son? No, sir, but I dont feel well enough to go homeFatherIIt-t-toldI toldan awful lie, one time, about you, and Why, son! Yes, sir. Ive been tryin for seven years tokown up, and SevO Law, son, I dont believe you eveh done it at all. You neveh so much as told a fib in yo life. You jest imagine you done it. Yes, I have, father, often. I cant explain, now, but please lemme go with you.~~ Why, son, I jest cant. Lawd knows I would if I could. Yes, you can, father, I wont be in the way. And I wont be af-raid. You dont think I would eveh be a-scared of a nigger, do you? But if the niggers should kill you, and me not there, I wouldnt ever be any account no more! I havent ever been any yet, but I will be, father, if youll Three pistol shots came from the town, and two townward-bound horse- men broke their trot and passed at a JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 163 gallop. Come on, Judge, laughed one. I declare, son, I dont know what toe do. You betteh go long back. Oh, father, dont send me back! Lemme go long with you. Please dont send me back! I couldnt go. Id just haf to turn round again an fol- low you. Lemme go with you, father. I want to go long with you. Ohthank you, sah I They trotted down into the town. D you reckon Cnelius 11 be there, father ?Ihope he will. The pallor was gone. As the turnpike became a tree-shaded street, they passed briskly by its old- fashioned houses set deep in grove gar- dens. Two or three weedy lanes at right and left showed the poor cabins of the towns darker life shut and si- lent. But presently, Father, look there! The Judge and his son turned quick- ly to a turfy bank where a ragged ne- gro lay at the base of a large tree. He was moaning, rocking his head, and holding a hand against his side. His rags were drenched with blood. The white eyes rolled up to the face of the Judge, as he tossed his bridle to his son. Watch, whispered the big lips, watch. John threw his fathers bridle back, galloped through a gate, and came with a gourd full. Gimme quick, son, hes swoonin away. The draught brought back some life. Shant I get a doctor, father? Taint a bit of use son. No, moaned the negro, Im gwine fasteh dan doctos kin come. Im in de deep watehs. Gwine to meet my Lawd Jesus. Good-by, wife; good-by, chil- inn. Oh, Jedge March, dey shot me in pyo devilment. I was jist lookin out fo my boy. Dey was comm in to town an dey sees me, an awdehs me to halt, an stid o dat I runs, thinkin thatd suit em jist as welL Oh, Lawd Oh, Lawdl Oh! He stared into the ~ Judges face, a great pain heaved him slowly, his eyes set, and all was over. A single sob burst from the boy as he gazed on the dark, dead features. The Judge hasted to mount. Now, son, I got to get right into town. But you see now, you betteh go long back to yo motheh, dont you? Im goin with you. XIII. rox rANNIE. THEY came where two men sat on horses in the way. Sorry, Jedge, but thems orders, sah; only enrolled men can pass.~~ But the speakers presently concluded that it could never have been intended to shut out such a personage as Judge March, and on pledge to report to Cap- tain Shotwell, at the Swanee Hotel, or else to Captain Champion at the court- house, father and son proceeded. Mont- rose Academy showed no sign of life as they went by. Yet John had never seen the town so populous. Saddled horses were tied everywhere. Men rode here or there in the yellow dust, idly or importantly, mounted, dismounted, or stood on the broken sidewalks in groups, some so- ber, some not, all armed and spurred, and more arriving from all directions. Handsome Captain Shotwell, sitting in civil dress, a sword belted on him and lying across his lap, explained to the Judge. Why, you know, Judge, how ow young men ah always up to some ridiculous pra-ank, jest in mere pla-ay, you know, seh. Yestedy some of em taken a boyish notion to put some ma-asks on an ride through Leggetts- town in sb-ow pocession, with a sawt o banneh marked, SEE You AGAIN To- NIGHT. They had gunsmo fom foce o habit, I reckon, than anything elseyou know how ow young men ah, sehone of em carry a gun a yeah, an neveh so much as hahm a floweh, you know. Well, seh, unfawtunately, the niggehs had no mo sense than to take it all in dead earnest. They put they women an childen into the church an ahmed theyseves, some thirty of em, with shotguns an old musketsyou- dehs some of em in the cawneh. Then they taken up a position in the road just this side the village, an sent to 164 JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. Sherman an Libbetyville fo reinfoce- ments. Well, of cose, you know, seh, what was jes bonn to happm. Some of ow vey best young men mounted an mov- ed to dislodge an scatteh them befo they could gatheh numbehs enough to take the offensive an begin they feind- ish work. Well, seh, about da-ay-break, while sawt o reconnoiterin in foce, they come suddenly upon the niggehs position, an the niggehs, without the slightes povocation, up an fi-ud! Pov- identially, they shot too high, an only one man was injnedby fallin f om his hawss. Well, seh, ow boys fl-nd an chaged, an the niggehs, of cose, run, leavin three dead an fo wounded, aw, accawdin to latest accounts, seven dead an no wounded. The niggehs taken shelteh in the church, ow boys fallen back fo reinfocements, an about a hour by sun comes word that the nig- gehs, frenzied with ra-age an liquo, a-comm this way to the numbeh o three hnnded, an increasin as they come. No, seh, I dont know that it is nnfawtunate. Its just as well faw this thing to happm an to happm now. Itll teach both sides, as Garnet said awhile ago addressiu the crowd, that the gov- ment o Dixies simply got to pa-ass, this time, away fom a ra-ace that cant peserve awdeh, an be undividedly trans- fehed oveh to the ra-ace God-Amighty appointed to govn ! Judge Marchs voice was full of meek distress. Captain Shotwell, where is Major Garnet, sir? Garnet? Oh, hes over in the Cou- rier office, consnltin with Haggard an Jeff-Jack. Do you know whether Genl Halli- days in town, sir? The Captain smiled. Hes in the next room, seh. Hes been nndeh my potection, as you might say, since daylight. Genl Halliday could stop all this, Captain. Stop it? He could stop it in two hours, seh! If hed just consent to go under parole to Leggettstown an tell them niggehs that if they 11 simply lay down they ahms an stay quietly at homejest faw a day aw twoall ll be freely fogivm an fogotten, seh! In- stead o that, he sits there, ca mly smilinyou know his wayan threat- enin us with the ahm of the United States Govement. He fogets that by a wise povision o that Govements foundehs its got sevl ahms, an one holds down anotheh. The Spreme CoteJudge March, you go in an see him; you jest the man to do it, seh! John waited without. Presently fa- ther and son were seen to leave Captain Shotwells head-quarters and cross the square to the Courier office. There a crowd was reading a bulletin which stated that scouting parties reported no negro force massed anywhere. At the top of a narrow staircase the judge and his son were let into the presence of Major Garnet and his advisers. Here John had one more good gaze at IRaveneL He was in the physical per- fection of twenty-six, his eyes less play- ful than once, but his smile less cynical. His dress was faultlessly neat. Haggard was almost as noticeable, though less interesting; a slender, high-strung man, with a pale face seamed by a long scar got in a duel One could see that he had been trying to offset the fatigues of the night with a popular remedy. Garnet was dictating, Haggard writing. Captains Shotwell and Champion will move their forces at once in oppo- site circuits, through the disturbed vil- lagesand assure all personsof what- ever race or party that the right of the people peaceably to bear arms is vindicated and that order is re- storedand will be maintained. A courier waited. At the same time, said Havenel, in- dolently, they can ask if the rumor is true that Mr. Leggett and about ten others are going to be absent from this part of the country until after the elec- tion, and say we hope its ~ Haggard cast a glance at Garnet, Garnet looked away, the postscript was made, and the missive sent. Brother March, good-morning, sir. The Major kept the Judges hand as they moved aside. But presently the whole room could hear Why, Brother March, the troubles all over !Oh, of course, if Halliday feels any real need to confer with us he can do so; well be right here.OhHaggard! JOHN MARCH, SOUTHERNER. 165 The editor, in the doorway, said he would be back, and went out. He was evidently avoiding Halliday. Judge March felt belittled and beoan to b go. If youre bound for home, Brother March, Ill be riding that way myself, presently. You see, in a few minutes Suezll be as quiet as it ever was, and I sent word to General Halliday just be- fore you came in, that no one designs, or has designed, to abridge any personal liberty of his he may think safe to exer- cise. The speaker suddenly ceased. Both men stood hearkening. Loud words came up the stairs. Your son stepped down into the street, Judge, said RaveneL The next instant the three rushed after him. John had gone down to see the two armed bands move away. They had been gone but a few minutes when he noticed General Halliday, finely mount- ed, come from a stable behind the hotel and trot smartly toward him. The few store-keepers left in town stared in con- temptuous expectation, but to John this was Fannies father, and the boy longed for something to occur which might enable him to serve that father in a sig- nal way that would make her forever tenderly grateful The telegraph office was up these same stairs on the other side of the landing opposite the Courier office; most likely the General was going to send despatches. Johns gaze followed the gallant figure till it disap- peared in the doorway at the foot of the staircase. Near the bottom the General and the editor met and passed. The edit- or stopped and cursed the General. You jostled me purposely, sir! Halliday turned and smiled. Jim Haggard, why should you shove me and then lie about it? cant you pick a fight for the truth? Dont speak to me, you white nig- ger! Are you armed? Yes! Then, Launcelot Halliday, yelled the editor, backing out upon the side- walk and drawing his repeater, I de- nounce you as a traitor, a poltroon, and a coward! Men darted away, dodged, peeped, and cried. Look out! Dont shoot! But John ran forward to the rescue. Put that thing up! he called to the editor, in boyish treble. Put it up! Jim Haggard, hold on ! cried Halliday, following down and out with his weapon pointed earthward. Let me speak, you drunken fool, get that boy Bang! went the editors pistol before he had half lifted it. Bang! replied Hallidays. The editors weapon dropped. He threw both hands against his breast, looked to heaven, wheeled half round, and fell upon his face as dead as a stone. Halliday leaped into the saddle, an- swered one shot that came from the crowd, and clattered away on the turn- pike. John was standing with arms held out; he turned blindly to find the doorway of the stairs and cried, Father! father! Son! He started for the sound, groped against the wall, sank to his knees, and fell backward. Room, here, room! Give him air! By George, sir, he rushed right in bare-handed between em, or- derin Haggard Stand back, you- all, and make way for Judge March! Oh, son, son! The father knelt, caught the limp hands and gazed with streaming eyes. Oh, son, my son! air you gone fum me, son? Air you gone? Air you gone? A young doctor took the passive wrist. No, Judge, hes not gone yet. IRavenel and the physician assumed control. Just consider him in my care, doctor, will you? Shall we take him to the hotel? Garnet supported Judge Marchs steps. Cast your burden on the Lord, Brother March. Bear upfor Sister Mar