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All apparent printer's errors have been retained.

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  THE GALAXY.

  A MAGAZINE OF ENTERTAINING READING.

  VOL. XXIII.

  JANUARY, 1877, TO JUNE, 1877.

  NEW YORK: Sheldon & Company,

  1877.




   Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by
                      SHELDON & COMPANY,
   in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.


   Typography of CHURCHWELL & TEALL.   Electrotyped by SMITH & MCDOUGAL.




INDEX TO VOLUME XXIII.


                                                                   PAGE.

   Administration of Abraham Lincoln    _Gideon Welles_           5, 149

   Almanacs, Some Old                   _Charles Wyllys Elliott_      24

   Alnaschar. 1876                      _Bret Harte_                 217

   Alfred de Musset                     _Henry James, Jr._           790

   Applied Science                      _Charles Barnard_        79, 160

   Art's Limitations                    _Margaret J. Preston_        159

   Assja                                _Ivan Tourgueneff_           368

   Aut Diabolus aut Nihil                                            218

   Ballad of Constance                  _William Winter_             109

   Balzac, Letters of                   _Henry James, Jr._           183

   Battalion, The                       _J. W. De Forest_            817

   Beer                                 _S. G. Young_                 62

   Beethoven, To                        _Sidney Lanier_              394

   Cigarettes                                                        471

   Cleopatra's Soliloquy                _Mary Bayard Clarke_         506

   Climbing Rose, The                                                596

   Cossacks, An Evening Party with the  _David Ker_                  406

   Dead Star, The                       _John James Piatt_           660

   Dead Vashti, A                       _Louise Stockton_            428

   Defeated                             _Mary L. Ritter_             354

   Dramatic Canons, The                 _Frederick Whittaker_   396, 508

   DRIFT-WOOD                           _Philip Quilibet_       125, 265,
                                                                411, 553,
                                                                 695, 842

         The Twelve-Month Sermon; Ribbons and Coronets at Market Rates; The
    Spinning of Literature; Growth of American Taste for Art; The Wills
    of the Triumvirate; The Duel and the Newspapers; The Industry of
    Interviewers; Talk about Novels; Primogeniture and Public Bequests;
    The Times and the Customs; Victor Hugo; Evolutionary Hints for
    Novelists; The Travellers; Swindlers and Dupes; Pegasus in Harness.

   Eastern Question, The                _A. H. Guernsey_             359

   English Peerage, The                 _E. C. Grenville Murray_     293

   English Traits                       _Richard Grant White_        520

   English Women                        _Richard Grant White_        675

   Executive Patronage and Civil
   Service Reform                       _J. L. M. Curry_             826

   Fascinations of Angling, The         _George Dawson_              818

   Fallen Among Thieves                                              809

   Great Seal of the United States      _John D. Champlin, Jr._      691

   Hard Times                           _Charles Wyllys Elliott_     474

   Head of Hercules, The                _James M. Floyd_              52

   Heartbreak Cameo                     _Lizzie W. Champney_         111

   Home of My Heart                     _F. W. Bourdillon_           543

   Influences                           _Charles Carroll_            124

   Juliet on the Balcony                _Howard Glyndon_              42

   Lassie's Complaint, The              _James Kennedy_              367

   Libraries, Public in the United
     States                             _John A. Church_             639

   Life Insurance                                               686, 803

   LITERATURE, CURRENT                                          137, 279,
                                                                425, 567,
                                                                 708, 855

   Love's Messengers                    _Mary Ainge De Vere_           51

   Love's Requiem                       _William Winter_              182

   Lucille's Letter                                                    23

   Madcap Violet. Chapters XLIV. to
     End                                _William Black_                30

   Margary, The Murder of               _Walter A. Burlingame_        175

   Miss Misanthrope. Chapters I. to
     XX.                                _Justin McCarthy_       244, 302,
                                                                450, 597,
                                                                746

   Miss Tinsel                          _Henry Sedley_               337

   Mohegan-Hudson                       _James Manning Winchell_     637

   Monsieur Delille                     _T. S. Fay_                  119

   National Bank Notes, How Redeemed    _Frank W. Lautz_             647

   NEBULAE                               _By The Editor_        144, 288,
                                                                431, 576,
                                                                 720, 864

   Normandy and Pyrenees                _Henry James, Jr._             95

   On Being Born Away from Home         _Titus Munson Coan_           533

   Our Rural Divinity                   _John Burroughs_               43

   Philter, The                         _Mary B. Dodge_               242

   Portrait D'une Jeune Femme
     Inconnue                           _M. E. W. S._                 336

   Progressive Baby, A                  _S. F. Hopkins_           81, 727

   Punished, The                        _Ella Wheeler_                789

   Pythia, The Modern                   _S. B. Luce_                  209

   Renunciation                         _Kate Hillard_                358

   Reflected Light                      _Mary Ainge De Vere_          802

   Romance                              _J. W. De Forest_              61

   Roman Picture, A                     _Mary Lowe Dickinson_         674

   Saint Lambert's Coal                 _Margaret J. Preston_         519

   SCIENTIFIC MISCELLANY                _Prof. John A.
                                          Church_               129, 269,
                                                                415, 558,
                                                                 699, 846

       Complications of the Channel Tunnel; A Town of Dwarfs; Whooping
    Cough; British Association Notes; An English Crop; Influence of
    White Colors; An Involved Accident; An Old Aqueduct System;
    Galvanism Cannot Restore Exhausted Vitality; Curious Optical
    Experiments; Ice Machines; American Antiquities; Protection from
    Lightning; Steam Machinery and Privateering; Man and Animals; The
    Limbs of Whales; Our Educational Standing; Surface Markings; The
    Oldest Stone Tools; Origin of the Spanish People; The English
    Meteorite; The Boomerang; A Western Lava Field; The Principle of
    Cephalization; Curiosities of the Herring Fishery; Natural Gas in
    Furnaces; South Carolina Phosphates; Rare Metals from Old Coins; A
    French Mountain Weather Station; Migration of the Lemming; New
    Discovery of Neolithic Remains; October Weather; French National
    Antiquities; The Force of Crystallization; Frozen Nitro-Glycerine;
    English Great Guns; Ear Trumpets for Pilots; Hot Water in Dressing
    Ores; Ocean Echoes; The Delicacy of Chemists' Balances; Government
    Control of the Dead; Microscopic Life; The Sources of Potable Water;
    Theory of the Radiometer; Tempered Glass in The Household; The New
    York Aquarium; The Cruelty of Hunting; The Gorilla in Confinement;
    Instruction Shops In Boston; Moon Madness; The Argument against
    Vaccination; The Telephone; Damages by an Insect; The Summer
    Scientific Schools; An Intelligent Quarantine; The "Grasshopper
    Commission"; Surveying Plans for the Season; The Causes of Violent
    Death; A New Induction Coil; French Property Owners; Trigonometrical
    Survey of New York; The Use of Air in Ore Dressing; Polar
    Colonization; The Survey in California; A German Savant among the
    Sioux; Ballooning for Air Currents; The Greatest of Rifles; Vienna
    Bread; Modern Loss in Warfare; A New Treasury Rule; A Hygienic
    School; Microscopic Comparison of Blood Corpuscles; The Summer
    Scientific Schools; The Wages Value of Steam Power; The <DW64>'s
    Color; Scientific Items.

   Shakespeare, On Reading              _Richard Grant White_    70, 233

   Shall Punishment Punish?             _Chauncey Hickox_            355

   Sister St. Luke                      _Constance Fenimore
                                          Woolson_                   489

   Sounding Brass                       _Lizzie W. Champney_         671

   South, The, Her Condition and Needs  _Hon. J. L. M. Curry_        544

   Story of a Lion                      _Albert Rhodes_              196

   Spring                               _H. R. H._                   841

   Spring Longing                       _Emma Lazarus_               725

   Theatres of London                   _Henry James, Jr._           661

   Three Periods of Modern Music        _Richard Grant White_        832

   Theatre Francais, The                _Henry James, Jr._           437

   Tried and True                       _Sylvester Baxter_           470

   Two Worlds, The                      _Ellice Hopkins_             488

   Unknown Persons                      _Mary Murdoch Mason_         657

   "Uniformed Militia" Service, The     _C. H. M._                   776

   Walt Whitman, To                     _Joaquin Miller_              29

   Woman's Gifts, A                     _Mary Ainge De Vere_         208

   Wordsworth's Corrections             _Titus Munson Coan_          322

   Yosemite Hermit, The                 _Clara G. Dolliver_          782




THE GALAXY.

VOL. XXIII.--JANUARY, 1877.--No. 1.




ADMINISTRATION OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.


The political differences which have generated parties in this country
date back to an early period. They existed under the old confederation,
were perceptible in the formation of the Constitution and establishment
of "a more perfect union." Differences on fundamental principles of
government led to the organization of parties which, under various
names, after the adoption of the Federal Constitution, divided the
people and influenced and often controlled national and State elections.
Neither of the parties, however, has always strictly adhered or been
true to its professed principles. Each has, under the pressure of
circumstances and to secure temporary ascendancy in the Federal or State
governments, departed from the landmarks and traditions which gave it
its distinctive character. The _Centralists_, a name which more
significantly than any other expresses the character, principles, and
tendency of those who favor centralization of power in a supreme head
that shall exercise paternal control over States and people, have under
various names constituted one party. On the other hand, the _Statists_,
under different names, have from the first been jealous of central
supremacy. They believe in local self-government, support the States in
all their reserved and ungranted rights, insist on a strict construction
of the Constitution and the limitation of Federal authority to the
powers specifically delegated in that instrument.

The broad and deep line of demarcation between these parties has not
always been acknowledged. Innovation and change have sometimes modified
and disturbed this line; but after a period the distinctive boundary has
reappeared and antagonized the people. During the administration of Mr.
Monroe, known as the "era of good feeling," national party lines were
almost totally obliterated, and local and personal controversies took
their place. National questions were revived, however, and contested
with extreme violence during several succeeding administrations. Thirty
years later, when the issues of bank, tariff, internal improvements, and
an independent treasury were disposed of, there was as complete a break
up of parties as in the days of Monroe. It was not, however, in an "era
of good feeling" that this later dislocation of parties took place; but
an attempt was made in 1850 by leading politicians belonging to
different organizations to unite the people by a compromise or an
arrangement as unnatural as it was insincere--party lines if not
obliterated were, as the authors intended, in a measure broken down.
This compromise, as it was called, was a sacrifice of honest principles,
and instead of allaying disputes, was followed by a terrific storm of
contention and violence transcending thing the country had ever
experienced, and ended in a civil war.

The time has not yet arrived for a calm and dispassionate review of the
acts and actors of that period and the events of the immediately
succeeding years; but the incidents that took place and the experience
so dearly purchased should not be perverted, misunderstood, or wholly
forgotten.

The compromises of 1850, instead of adjusting differences and making the
people of one mind on political questions, actually caused in their
practical results the alienation of life-long party friends, led to new
associations among old opponents, and created organizations that partook
more of a sectional character than of honest constitutional differences
on fundamental questions relative to the powers and authority of the
Government, such as had previously divided the people. The facility with
which old political opponents came together in the compromise measures
of 1850, and abandoned principles and doctrines for which they had
battled through their whole lives, begot popular distrust. Confidence in
the sincerity of the men who so readily made sacrifices of principles
was forfeited or greatly impaired. The Whig party dwindled under it, and
as an organization shortly went out of existence. A large portion of its
members, disgusted with what they considered the insincerity if not
faithlessness of their leaders, yet unwilling to attach themselves to
the Democratic party, which had coalesced in the movement, gathered
together in a secret organization, styling themselves "Know Nothings."
Democrats in some quarters, scarcely less dissatisfied with the
compromises, joined the Know Nothing order, and in one or two annual
elections this strange combination, without avowed principles or
purpose, save that of the defeat and overthrow of politicians, who were
once their trusted favorites, was successful. In this demoralized
condition of affairs, the Democrats by the accession of Whigs in the
Southern States obtained possession of the Government and maintained
their ascendancy through the Pierce administration; and, in a contest
quite as much sectional as political, elected Buchanan in 1856.

But these were the expiring days of the old Democratic organization,
which, under the amalgamating process of the compromise measures, became
shattered and mixed, especially in the Southern States, with former
Whigs, and was to a great extent thereafter sectionalized. The different
opposing political elements united against it and organized and
established the Republican party, which triumphed in the election of
Lincoln in 1860. The administration which followed and was inaugurated
in 1861 differed in essential particulars from either of the preceding
political organizations. Men of opposing principles--Centralists, who
like Hamilton and patriots of that class were for a strong imperial
national government, with supervising and controlling authority over the
States, on one hand, and Statists on the other, who, like Jefferson,
adhered to State individuality and favored a league or federation of
States, a national republic of limited and clearly defined powers, with
a strict observance of all the reserved right of the local
commonwealths--were brought together in the elections of 1860. It has
been represented and recorded as grave history that the Republican party
was an abolition party. Such was not the fact, although the small and
utterly powerless faction which, under the lead of William Lloyd
Garrison and others, had for years made aggressive war on slavery, was
one of the elements which united with Whigs and Democrats in the
election of Mr. Lincoln. Nor was that result a Whig triumph, though a
large portion of the Whigs in the free States, after the compromises of
1850, from natural antagonism to the Democrats, entered into the
Republican organization. While it is true that a large majority of the
Whigs of the North relinquished their old organization and became
Republicans, it is no less true that throughout the slave States, and
in many of the free States, the members of the Whig party to a
considerable extent supported Bell or Breckenridge. But Democrats
dissatisfied with the measures of the Pierce and Buchanan
administrations, in much larger numbers than is generally conceded, took
early and efficient part in the Republican organizations--some on
account of the repeal of the Missouri compromise, but a much larger
number in consequence of the efforts of the central Government at
Washington, by what was considered by them an abuse of civil trust, and
by military interference, to overpower the settlers in Kansas, denying
them the right of self-government, and an attempt arbitrarily and
surreptitiously to impose upon the inhabitants against their will a
fraudulent Constitution. It was this large contribution of free-thinking
and independent Democrats, who had the courage to throw off party
allegiance and discipline in behalf of the principles of free government
on which our republican system is founded, the right of the people to
self-government, and, consequently, the right to form and establish
their own constitution without dictation or interference from the
central government so long as they violated no provision of the organic
law, that gave tone, form, and ascendancy to the Republican party in
every free State.

Persistent efforts have been made to establish as historical truths the
representations that the civil war had its origin in a scheme or purpose
to abolish slavery in the States where it existed, and that the election
of Abraham Lincoln was an abolition triumph--a premeditated, aggressive,
sectional war upon the South; whereas the reverse is the fact--the
Republican party in its inception was a strictly constitutional party,
that defended the rights of the people, the rights of the States, and
the rights of the Federal Government, which were assailed by a sectional
combination that was not satisfied with the Constitution as it was, but
proposed to exact new guarantees from the nation for the protection of
what they called "Southern rights"--rights unknown to the Constitution.
The misrepresentations that the Republicans were aggressive and aimed to
change the organic law have not been without their influence,
temporarily at least, in prejudicing and warping the public mind. It is
true that the slavery question was most injudiciously and unwisely
brought into the party controversies of the country; but it was done by
the slaveholders or their political representatives in Congress after
the failure of the nullifiers to obtain ascendancy in the Government on
the subject of free trade and resistance to the revenue laws.

John C. Calhoun, a man of undoubted talents, but of unappeasable
ambition, had at an early period of his life, while Secretary of War,
and still a young man, aspired to the office of President. By his
ability and patriotic course during the war of 1812, and subsequently by
a brilliant career as a member of Mr. Monroe's Cabinet, he had acquired
fame and a certain degree of popularity which favored his pretensions,
particularly with young men and army officers. Schemes and projects of
national aggrandizement by internal improvements, protection to home
industries, large military expenditures, and measures of a centralizing
tendency which were popular in that era of no parties, gave him _eclat_
as Secretary of War. Flattered by his attentions and by his shining
qualities, military men became his enthusiastic supporters, and received
encouragement from him in return. It was the first attempt to elect so
young a man to be Chief Magistrate, and was more personal than political
in its character. In the memorable contest for the successorship to
President Monroe, Mr. Calhoun at one time seemed to be a formidable
candidate; but his popularity being personal was evanescent, and failed
to enlist the considerate and reflecting. Even his military hopes were
soon eclipsed by General Jackson, whose bold achievements and successes
in the Indian and British wars captivated the popular mind. Jackson had
also, as a representative and Senator in Congress, Judge of the Supreme
Court of Tennessee, and Governor of Florida, great civil experience. Mr.
Calhoun was, however, in the political struggle that took place in 1824,
elected to the second office of the republic, while in the strife,
confusion, and break up of parties no one of the competing candidates
for President received a majority of the electoral votes. He and his
supporters submitted to, it may be said acquiesced in, the result then
and also in 1828, when General Jackson was elected President and Mr.
Calhoun was reelected to the office of Vice-President. This
acquiescence, however, was reluctant; but with an expectation that he
would in 1833, at the close of General Jackson's term, be the successor
of the distinguished military chieftain.

But the arrangements of calculating politicians often end in
disappointments. Such was the misfortune of Mr. Calhoun. His ambitious
and apparently well contrived plans had most of them an abortive and
hapless termination. Observation and experience convinced him, after
leaving Mr. Monroe's Cabinet, that the educated and reflective Statists
or State rights men of the country, and especially of the South, would
never sanction or be reconciled to the exercise of power by the Federal
Government to protect the manufacturing interests of New England, or to
construct roads and canals in the West, at the expense of the National
Treasury. These were, however, favorite measures of a class of
politicians of the period who had special interests to subserve, and who
carried with them the consolidationists, or advocates of a strong and
magnificent central government. The tariff, internal improvements, and
kindred subjects became classified and known in the party politics of
that day as the "American system"--a system of high taxes and large
expenditures by the Federal Government--without specific constitutional
authority for either. Parties were arrayed on opposite sides of this
system, which, besides the political principles involved, soon partook
of a sectional character. High and oppressive duties on importations, it
was claimed, were imposed to foster certain industries in the North to
the injury of the South.

Henry Clay, a politician and statesman of wonderful magnetic power, was
the eloquent champion of the "American system," and enlisted in his
favor the large manufacturing interest in the North and the friends of
internal improvement in the West. These measures were made national
issues, and Mr. Clay, Speaker of the House of Representatives,
appropriated them to his personal advancement, and was their recognized
leading advocate. Mr. Calhoun could not be second to his Western rival,
but abandoned the policy of protection, internal improvements, and great
national undertakings, and allied himself to the commercial and
plantation interests, which opposed the system, expecting to identify
himself with and to receive the support of the Statists. But the strict
constructionists of Virginia, Georgia, and other States of the old
Jefferson school distrusted him and withheld their confidence and
support.

South Carolina, erratic, brilliant, and impulsive, had never fully
harmonized with the politicians of Virginia in their political
doctrines, but had been inclined to ridicule the rigid and
non-progressive principles of her statesmen, who, always cautious, were
now slow to receive into fellowship and to commit themselves to the new
convert who sought their support. They slighted him, and rejected his
nullification remedies. Instead of following the Palmetto State in her
fanatical party schemes on the alleged issue of free trade, and
supporting her "favorite son" in his theories, they sustained General
Jackson, whose Union sentiments they approved, and who, to the disgust
of Calhoun, became a candidate for reelection in 1832 and received the
votes of almost the whole South.

In this crisis, when the heated partisans of South Carolina in their
zeal for free trade and State rights had made a step in advance of the
more staid and reflecting Statists, and undertook to abrogate and
nullify the laws of the Federal Government legally enacted, they found
themselves unsupported and in difficulty, and naturally turned to their
acknowledged leader for guidance. To contest the Federal Government, and
pioneer the way for his associates to resist and overthrow the
Administration, Mr. Calhoun resigned the office of Vice-President and
accepted that of Senator, where his active mind, fertile in resources,
could, and as he and they believed would extricate them. There was,
however, at the head of the Government in that day a stern, patriotic,
and uncompromising Chief Magistrate, who would listen to no mere
temporizing expedients when the stability of the Union was involved, and
who, while recognizing and maintaining the rights of the States, never
forgot the rights that belonged to the Federal Government. In his
extremity, when confronting this inflexible President, Mr. Calhoun
hastened to make friends with his old opponents, Clay, Webster, and the
protectionists, the advocates of the "American system," the authors and
champions of the very policy which had been made the pretext or
justification for nullification and resistance to Federal law and the
Federal authority. This coalition of hostile factions combined in a
scheme, or compromise, where each sacrificed principles to oppose the
administration of Jackson. It was an insincere and unrighteous coalition
which soon fell asunder.

In the mean time, while nullification was hopelessly prostrate, and
before the coalition was complete, the prolific mind of the aspiring
Carolinian devised a new plan and a new system of tactics which it was
expected would sectionalize and unite the South. This new device was a
defence of slavery--a subject in which the entire South was
interested--against the impudent demands of the abolitionists. Not until
the nullifiers were defeated, and had failed to draw the South into
their nullification plan, was slavery agitation introduced into Congress
and made a sectional party question with aggressive demands for national
protection. The abolitionists were few in numbers, and of little account
in American politics. Some benevolent Quakers and uneasy fanatics, who
neither comprehended the structure of our Federal system nor cared for
the Constitution, had annually for forty years petitioned Congress to
give freedom to the slaves. But the statesmen of neither party listened
to these unconstitutional appeals until the defeated nullifiers
professed great apprehension in regard to them, and introduced the
subject as a disturbance, and made it a sensational sectional issue in
Congress and the elections.

From the first agitation of the subject as a party question, slavery in
all its phases was made sectional and aggressive by the South. Beginning
with a denial of the right to petition for the abolition of slavery, and
with demands for new and more exacting national laws for the arrest and
rendition of fugitives, the new sectional party test was followed by
other measures; such as the unconditional admission of Texas, the
extension of slavery into all the free territory acquired from Mexico,
the repeal of the Missouri compromise, a denial to the people of Kansas
of the right to frame their own constitution, and other incidental and
irritating questions that were not legitimately within the scope of
Federal authority. Fierce contentions prevailed for years, sometimes
more violent than at others.

In 1850 a budget of compromises, which has already been alluded to,
involving a surrender of principles and an enactment of laws that were
unwarranted by the Constitution, and offensive in other respects, had
been patched up by old Congressional party leaders, ostensibly to
reconcile conflicting views and interests, but which were superficial
remedies for a cancerous disease, and intended more to glorify the
authors than to promote the country's welfare. Both of the great parties
were committed by the managers to these compromises, but the effect upon
each was different. The Whigs, tired of constant defeat, hoped for a
change by the compromises that would give them recognition and power;
but instead of these they found themselves dwarfed and weakened, while
the Democrats, who yielded sound principles to conciliate their Southern
allies, were for a time numerically strengthened in that section by
accessions from the Whigs. Old party lines became broken, and in the
Presidential contest of 1852 the Democratic candidate, General Pierce, a
young and showy, but not profound man, was elected by an overwhelming
majority over the veteran General Scott, who was the candidate of the
Whigs. From this date the Whig organization dwindled and had but a
fragmentary existence. Thenceforward, until the overthrow of the
Democratic party, the Government at Washington tended to centralization.
Fidelity to party, and adherence to organization with little regard for
principle, were its political tests in the free States. Sectional
sentiments to sustain Southern aggressions, under the name of "Southern
rights," were inculcated, violent language, and acts that were scarcely
less so, prevailed through the South and found apologists and defenders
at the North. Presidents Pierce and Buchanan, literally "northern men
with southern principles," were submissive to these sectional
aggressions, acquiesced in the repeal of the Missouri compromise, the
extension and nationalizing of slavery, hitherto a State institution,
and also to the schemes to prevent the establishment of a free
constitution by the people of Kansas. The mass of voters opposed to the
policy of these administrations, and who constituted the Republican
party, were not entirely in accord on fundamental principles and views
of government, but had been brought into united action from the course
of events which followed the Mexican war, the acquisition of territory,
and the unfortunate compromises of 1850. The sectional strife, for the
alleged reason of Lincoln's election and Republican success, which
eventuated in hostilities in 1861, and the tremendous conflict that
succeeded and shook the foundation of the Government during the ensuing
four years, threatening the national existence, absorbed all minor
questions of a purely political party character, and made the Cabinet of
Mr. Lincoln, though its members entertained organic differences, a unit.
There were occasions when the antecedent opinions and convictions of the
members elicited discussion in regard to the powers, limitations, and
attributes of government; but in the midst of war disagreeing political
opinions as well as the laws themselves were silenced. Each and all felt
the necessity of harmonious and efficient action to preserve the Union.

This was especially the case during the first two years of the war of
secession. Not only the President's constitutional advisers, but the
Republican members of Congress, embracing many captious, factious, and
theoretical controversialists, acted in harmony and concert. Murmurs
were heard among its friends, and dissatisfaction felt that the
Administration was not sufficiently energetic or arbitrary, and because
it did not immediately suppress the rebellion. A long period of peace
which the country had enjoyed rendered the malcontents incapable of
judging of the necessities of preparation for war. "On to Richmond"
became the cry of the impatient and restless before the armies mustered
into service were organized. The violent and impassioned appeals of
excited and mischievous speakers and writers created discontent and
clamor that could not always be appeased or successfully resisted. Not
content with honest if not always intelligent criticism of the
Government, some editors, papers, writers, and speakers, at an early
period and indeed throughout the war, condemned the policy pursued,
assumed to direct the management of affairs, and advanced crude and
absurd notions of the manner in which the Government should be
administered and military operations conducted. For a period after the
rout at Bull Run, which seemed a rebuke to these inconsiderate
partisans, there was a temporary lull of complaints and apparent
acquiescence by Republicans in the measures of administration.

Military differences and army jealousies existed from the beginning,
which were aggravated and stimulated by partisan friends and opponents
of the rival officers, and by dissent from the policy pursued in the
conduct of military affairs to which many took exception.

General Scott was the military oracle of the Administration in the first
days of the war. His ability and great experience entitled him to regard
and deference on all questions relating to military operations. No one
appreciated his qualities more than the President, unless it was General
Scott himself, who with great self-esteem was nevertheless not
unconscious that his age and infirmities had impaired his physical
energies, and in some respects unfitted him to be the active military
commander. It was his misfortune that he prided himself more if possible
on his civil and political knowledge and his administrative ability than
on his military skill and capacity. As a politician his opinions were
often chimerical, unstable, and of little moment; but his military
knowledge and experience were valuable. With headquarters at Washington,
and for thirty years consulted and trusted by successive administrations
of different parties in important emergencies, internal and external,
and at one time the selected candidate of one of the great political
parties for President, he had reason to feel that he was an important
personage in the republic; also that he was competent, and that it was a
duty for him to participate in political matters, and to advise in civil
affairs when there were threatened dangers. But while he was sagacious
to detect the premonitory symptoms of disturbance, and always ready to
obey and execute military orders, he was in political and civil matters
often weak, irresolute, and infirm of purpose. He had in the autumn of
1860 warned President Buchanan of danger to be apprehended from the
secession movement, and wisely suggested measures to preserve peace; but
he soon distrusted and abandoned his own suggestions. Without much
knowledge of Mr. Lincoln, and believing erroneously, as did many others,
that Mr. Seward was to be the controlling mind in the new
administration, he early put himself in communication with that
gentleman. The two agreed upon the policy of surrendering or yielding to
the States in secession the fortresses within their respective limits.
It has been said, and circumstances indicate that there was also an
understanding by Mr. Seward with certain secession leaders, that the
forts, particularly Sumter, if not attacked, should not be reinforced.
Of the plans of Mr. Seward and General Scott, and the understanding
which either of them had with the secessionists, President Lincoln was
not informed; but, while he had a sense of duty and a policy of his own,
he attentively and quietly listened to each and to all others entitled
to give their opinions.

The reports of Major Anderson and the defence of Sumter being military
operations, the President, pursuant to Mr. Seward's advice, referred to
General Scott, and it was supposed by those gentlemen that the President
acquiesced in their conclusions. Nor were they alone in that
supposition, for the President, while cautiously feeling his way,
sounding the minds of others, and gathering information from every
quarter, wisely kept his own counsel and delayed announcing his
determination until the last moment. He was accused of being culpably
slow, when he was wisely deliberate.

When his decision to reinforce Sumter was finally made known, the
Secretary of State and the General-in-Chief were surprised, embarrassed,
and greatly disappointed; for it was an utter negation and defeat of the
policy which they had prescribed. The General, like a good soldier,
quietly and submissively acquiesced; but Mr. Seward, a man of expedients
and some conceit, was unwilling and unprepared to surrender the first
place in the Administration, and virtually publish the fact by an
Executive mandate which upset his promised and preferred arrangements.
It was then that he became aware of two things: first, that neither
himself nor General Scott, nor both combined, were infallible with the
Administration; and second, that the President, with all his suavity and
genial nature, had a mind of his own, and the resolution and
self-reliance to form, and the firmness and independence to execute a
purpose. They had each overestimated the influence of the other with the
President, and underestimated his capacity, will, and self-reliance.
When the Secretary became convinced that he could not alter the
President's determination, he conformed to circumstances, immediately
changed his tactics, and after notifying the authorities at Charleston
that the garrison in Sumter was to be supplied, he took prompt but
secret measures to defeat the expedition by detaching the flagship, and
sending her, with the supplies and reinforcements that had been prepared
and intended for Sumter, to Fort Pickens. In doing this he consulted
neither the War nor Navy Departments, to which the service belonged; but
discarding both, and also the General-in-Chief, his preceding special
confidant, and with whom he had until then acted in concert, he took to
his counsel younger military officers, secretly advised with them and
withdrew them from their legitimate and assigned duties. The discourtesy
and the irregularity of the proceeding, when it became known, shocked
General Scott. His pride was touched. He felt the slight, but he was too
good an officer, too subordinate, and too well disciplined, to complain.
The secret military expedition undertaken by the Secretary of State
without the knowledge of the proper departments and of himself, was so
irregular, such evidence of improper administration, that he became
alarmed. He felt keenly the course of Mr. Seward in not consulting him,
and in substituting one of his staff as military adviser for the
Secretary of State; but he was more concerned for the Government and
country.

A native of Virginia, and imbued with the political doctrines there
prevalent, but unflinching in patriotism and devotion to the Union and
the flag, General Scott hesitated how to act--objected to the hostile
invasion of any State by the national troops, but advised that the
rebellious section should be blockaded by sea and land. He thought that
surrounded by the army and navy the insurgents would be cut off from the
outer world, and when exhausted from non-intercourse and the entire
prostration of trade and commerce they would return to duty; the
"anaconda principle" of exhausting them he believed would be effectual
without invading the territory of States. When the mayor of Baltimore
and a committee of secessionists waited upon the President on the 20th
of April to protest against the passage of troops through that city to
the national capital, he, in deference to the local government, advised
the President to yield to the metropolitan demand, and himself drew up
an Executive order to that effect. The seizure of Harper's Ferry and
Norfolk and the threatened attack upon Washington greatly disturbed him,
but not so much as the wild cry of the ardent and impulsive which soon
followed of "on to Richmond" with an undisciplined army.

Sensible of his inability to take the field, he acquiesced in the
selection if he did not propose after the disaster at Bull Run, that
General McClellan should be called to Washington to organize the broken
and demoralized Army of the Potomac. A thorough reorganization was
promptly and effectually accomplished by that officer. In a few days
order, precision, and discipline prevailed--the troops were massed and a
large army was encamped in and about the national capital. But it was
soon evident to the members of the Administration that there was not
perfect accord between the two Generals. The cause and extent of
disagreement were not immediately understood.

At a Cabinet meeting which took place in September at the headquarters
of the General-in-Chief by reason of his physical infirmities, a brief
discussion occurred which developed coolness if not dissatisfaction. An
inquiry was made by the President as to the exact number of troops then
in and about Washington. General McClellan did not immediately
respond--said he had brought no reports or papers with him. General
Scott said he had not himself recently received any reports. Secretary
Seward took from his pocket some memoranda, stating the number that had
been mustered in a few days previous, and then went on to mention
additional regiments which had arrived several successive days since,
making an aggregate, I think, of about ninety-three thousand men. The
General immediately became grave.

When the subject matter for which the Cabinet and war officers had been
convened was disposed of, some of the gentlemen left, and General
McClellan was about retiring, when General Scott requested him to
remain, and he also desired the President and the rest of us to listen
to some inquiries and remarks which he wished to make. He was very
deliberate, but evidently very much aggrieved. Addressing General
McClellan, he said:

"You are perhaps aware, General McClellan, that you were brought to
these headquarters by my advice and by my orders after consulting with
the President. I know you to be intelligent and to be possessed of some
excellent military qualities; and after our late disaster it appeared to
me that you were a proper person to organize and take active command of
this army. I brought you here for that purpose. Many things have been,
as I expected they would be, well done; but in some respects I have been
disappointed. You do not seem to be aware of your true position; and it
was for this reason I desired that the President and these gentlemen
should hear what I have to say. You are here upon my staff to obey my
orders, and should daily report to me. This you have failed to do, and
you appear to labor under the mistake of supposing that you and not I
are General-in-Chief and in command of the armies. I more than you am
responsible for military operations; but since you came here I have been
in no condition to give directions or to advise the President because my
chief of staff has neglected to make reports to me. I cannot answer
simple inquiries which the President or any member of the Cabinet makes
as to the number of troops here; they must go to the State department
and not come to military headquarters for that information."

Mr. Seward here interposed to say that the statement he had made was
from facts which he had himself collected from day to day as the troops
arrived. "Do I understand," asked General Scott, "that the regiments
report as they come here to the Honorable Secretary of State?"

"No, no," said Mr. Cameron, who wished to arrest or soften a painful
interview. "General McClellan is not to blame; it is Seward's work. He
is constantly meddling with what is none of his business, and (alluding
to the Pickens expedition) makes mischief in the war and navy
departments by his interference."

There was in the manner more than in the words a playful sarcasm which
Seward felt and the President evidently enjoyed. General McClellan stood
by the open door with one hand raised and holding it, a good deal
embarrassed. He said he had intended no discourtesy to General Scott,
but he had been so incessantly occupied in organizing and placing the
army, receiving and mustering in the recruits as they arrived, and
attending to what was absolutely indispensable, that it might seem he
omitted some matters of duty, but he should extremely regret if it was
supposed he had been guilty of any disrespect.

"You are too intelligent and too good a disciplinarian not to know your
duties and the proprieties of military intercourse," said General Scott;
"but seem to have misapprehended your right position. I, you must
understand, am General-in-Chief. You are my chief of staff. When I
brought you here you had my confidence and friendship. I do not say that
you have yet entirely lost my confidence. Good day, General McClellan."

A few weeks later General Scott was on his own application placed upon
the retired list, and General McClellan became his successor.
Disaffection on the part of any of the officers, if any existed, did not
immediately show itself; the army and people witnessed with pride the
prompt and wonderful reorganization that had taken place, and for a time
exulted in the promised efficiency and capabilities of the "young
Napoleon." But the autumn passed away in grand reviews and showy
parades, where the young General appeared with a numerous staff composed
of wealthy young gentlemen, inexperienced, untrained, and unacquainted
with military duty, who as well as foreign princes had volunteered their
services. Parades and reviews were not useless, and the committal of
wealthy and influential citizens who were placed upon his staff had its
advantages; but as time wore on and no blow was struck or any decisive
movement attempted, complaints became numerous and envy and jealousy
found opportunity to be heard.

The expectation that the rebellion would be suppressed in ninety days,
and that an undisciplined force of seventy-five thousand men or even
five times that number would march to Richmond, clear the banks of the
Mississippi, capture New Orleans, and overwhelm the whole South, had
given way to more reasonable and rational views before Congress convened
at the regular session in December. Still the slow progress that was
made by the Union armies, and the immense war expenditures, to which our
country was then unaccustomed, caused uneasiness with the people, and
furnished food and excitement for the factions in Congress.

The anti-slavery feeling was increasing, but efforts to effect
emancipation were not controlling sentiments of the Administration or of
a majority of Congress at the commencement or during the first year of
Mr. Lincoln's term, although such are the representations of party
writers, and to some extent of the historians of the period. Nor did the
Administration, as is often asserted and by many believed, commence
hostilities and make aggressive war on the slave States or their
institutions; but when war began and a national garrison in a national
fortress was attacked, it did not fail to put forth its power and
energies to suppress the rebellion and maintain the integrity of the
Union. Military delays and tardy movements were nevertheless charged to
the imbecility of the Government. It is not to be denied that a portion
of the most active supporters of the President in and out of Congress
and in the armies had in view ulterior purposes than that of suppressing
the insurrection. Some were determined to avail themselves of the
opportunity to abolish slavery, others to extinguish the claim of
reserved sovereignty to the States, and a portion were favorable to
both of these extremes and to the consolidation of power in the central
Government; but a larger number than either and perhaps more than all
combined were for maintaining the Constitution and Union unimpaired.

The President, while opposed to all innovating schemes, had the happy
faculty of so far harmonizing and reconciling his differing friends as
to keep them united in resisting the secession movement.

Abraham Lincoln was in many respects a remarkable man, never while
living fully understood or appreciated. An uncultured child of the
frontiers, with no educational advantages, isolated in youth in his
wilderness home, with few associates and without family traditions, he
knew not his own lineage and connections. Nor was this singular in the
then condition of unsettled frontier life. His grandfather, with Daniel
Boone, left the settled part of Virginia, crossed the Alleghany
mountains, penetrated the "dark and bloody ground," and took up his
residence in the wilds of Kentucky near the close of the Revolutionary
war. There was little intercourse with each other in the new and
scattered settlements destitute of roads and with no mail facilities for
communication with relatives, friends, and the civilized world east of
the mountains. Abraham Lincoln, the grandfather of the President, was a
nephew of Daniel Boone, and partook of the spirit of his brave and
subsequently famous relative. But his residence in his secluded home was
brief. He was killed by the Indians when his son Thomas, the father of
President Lincoln, was only six years old. Four years later the
fatherless boy lost his mother. Left an orphan, this neglected child,
without kith or kindred for whom he cared or who cared for him, led a
careless, thriftless life, became a wandering pioneer, emigrated from
Kentucky when the President was but seven years old, took up his
residence for several years in the remote solitudes of Indiana, and
drifted at a later day to Illinois. This vagrant life, by a shiftless
father, and without a mother or female relative to keep alive and
impress upon him the pedigree and traditions of his family, left the
President without definite knowledge of his origin and that of his
fathers. The deprivation he keenly felt. I heard him say on more than
one occasion that when he laid down his official life he would endeavor
to trace out his genealogy and family history. He had a vague impression
that his family had emigrated from England to Pennsylvania and thence to
Virginia; but, as he remarked in my presence to Mr. Ashmun of
Massachusetts, and afterward to Governor Andrew, there was not, he
thought, any immediate connection with the families of the same name in
Massachusetts, though there was reason to suppose they had a common
ancestry.

Having entered upon this subject, and already said more than was
anticipated at the commencment, the opportunity is fitting to introduce
extracts from a statement made by himself and to accompany it with other
facts which have come into my possession since his death--facts of which
he had no knowledge.

In a brief autobiographical sketch of his life, written by himself, he
says:

     I was born February 12, 1809, in Hardin county, Kentucky. My
     parents were both born in Virginia, of undistinguished
     families--second families perhaps I should say. My mother, who died
     in my tenth year, was of a family of the name of Hanks, some of
     whom now reside in Adams and others in Macon county, Illinois. My
     paternal grandfather, Abraham Lincoln, emigrated from Rockingham
     county, Virginia, to Kentucky, about 1781 or 2, where, a year or
     two later, he was killed by Indians, not in battle, but by stealth,
     when he was laboring to open a farm in the forest. His ancestors,
     who were Quakers, went to Virginia from Berks county, Pennsylvania.
     An effort to identify them with the New England family of the same
     name ended in nothing more definite than a similarity of Christian
     names in both families, such as Enoch, Levi, Mordecai, Solomon,
     Abraham, and the like.

     My father, at the death of his father, was but six years of age;
     and he grew up literally without education. He removed from
     Kentucky to what is now Spencer county, Indiana, in my eighth year.
     We reached our new home about the time the State came into the
     Union. It was a wild region, with many bears and other wild animals
     still in the woods. There I grew up. There were some schools, so
     called; but no qualification was ever required of a teacher, beyond
     reading, writing, and ciphering to the rule of three. If a
     straggler, supposed to understand Latin, happened to sojourn in the
     neighborhood, he was looked upon as a wizard. There was absolutely
     nothing to excite ambition for education. Of course when I came of
     age I did not know much. Still, somehow, I could read, write, and
     cipher, to the rule of three; but that was all. I have not been to
     school since. The little advance I now have upon this store of
     education I have picked up from time to time under the pressure of
     necessity.

     I was raised to farm work, which I continued till I was twenty-two.
     At twenty-one I came to Illinois, and passed the first year in
     Macon county. Then I got to New Salem, at that time in Sangamon,
     now in Menard county, where I remained a year as a sort of clerk in
     a store.

In addition to the foregoing I may add that among my acquaintance in
central Pennsylvania were several sisters whose maiden name was Winters.
Two of these sisters were wives of Judges of the Supreme Court of
Pennsylvania. Another sister was the wife of William Potter, a member of
Congress of some note from that State and son of General Potter of the
Revolution. These sisters were the great aunts of President Lincoln, and
I subjoin an obituary notice of the younger sister, Mrs. Potter, who
died in 1875, at the advanced age of eighty-four. There are some
incidents not immediately connected with the subject that might be
omitted, but I think it best to present the obituary in full:

     Died, in Bellefonte, at the residence of Edward C. Humes, on Sunday
     morning, the 30th of May A. D. 1875, Mrs. Lucy Potter, relict of
     Hon. William W. Potter, deceased, aged eighty-four years, nine
     months, and two days.

     Mrs. Potter was a member of a large and rather remarkable family;
     her father having been born in 1728, married in 1747, died in 1794;
     children to the number of nineteen being born to him, the eldest in
     1748, the youngest in 1790--their birth extending over a period of
     forty-two years. William Winters, the father of the deceased, came
     from Berks county to Northumberland, now Lycoming county, in the
     year 1778, having purchased the farm lately known as the Judge
     Grier farm, near what was called Newberry, but now within the
     corporate limits of the city of Williamsport. Mr. Winters was twice
     married. His first wife was Ann Boone, a sister of Colonel Daniel
     Boone, famous in the early annals of Kentucky. His marriage took
     place in the year 1747 in the then province of Virginia. By this
     union there were issue eleven children, four males and seven
     females. His eldest daughter, Hannah, married in Rockingham county,
     Virginia, Abraham Lincoln, the grandfather of President Lincoln.
     Shortly before his death, Lincoln, who was killed by the Indians,
     visited his father-in-law at what is now Williamsport, and John
     Winters, his brother-in-law, returned with him to Kentucky, whither
     Mr. Lincoln had removed after his marriage; John being deputed to
     look after some lands taken by Colonel Daniel Boone and his father.

     They travelled on foot from the farm, by a route leading by where
     Bellefonte now is, the Indian path "leading from Bald Eagle to
     Frankstown."

     John Winters visited his sister, Mrs. Potter, in 1843, and
     wandering to the hill upon which the Academy is situated, a
     messenger was sent for him, his friends thinking he had lost
     himself; but he was only looking for the path he and Lincoln had
     trod sixty years before, and pointed out with his finger the course
     from Spring creek, along Buffalo run, to where it crosses the "Long
     Limestone Valley," as the route they had travelled.

     Upon the death of Mr. Winters's first wife, in 1771, he again, in
     1774, married. His second wife was Ellen Campbell, who bore him
     eight children, three males and five females, of which latter the
     subject of this notice was the youngest.

     The father of Mrs. Potter died in 1794, and in 1795 Mrs. Ellen
     Winters, his widow, was licensed by the courts of Lycoming county
     to keep a "house of entertainment" where Williamsport now is--where
     she lived and reared her own children as well as several of her
     step children.

     Here all her daughters married, Mary becoming the wife of Charles
     Huston, who for a number of years adorned the bench of the Supreme
     Court of this State; Ellen, the wife of Thomas Burnside, who was a
     member of Congress, Judge of the Court of Common Pleas, and finally
     a Justice of the Supreme Court; Sarah, the wife of Benjamin Harris,
     whose daughter, Miss Ellen Harris, resides on Spring street in this
     borough; Elizabeth, the wife of Thomas Alexander, a carpenter and
     builder, who erected one of the first dwellings in Williamsport, at
     the corner of what are now Pine and Third streets in that city, and
     many of whose descendants are still living in Lycoming county;
     Lucy, the wife of William W. Potter, a leading politician in this
     county, who died on the 15th day of October, 1888, while a member
     of our national Congress.

     Mrs. Potter continued with her mother's family in Lycoming county,
     frequently visiting her two sisters, Mrs. Huston and Mrs. Burnside,
     who resided in Bellefonte, where, in 1815, she was united in
     marriage, by Rev. James Linn, with William W. Potter, a young and
     rising lawyer, and son of General James Potter, one of the early
     settlers of the county. Here, with her husband until his death, and
     then, upon the marriage of her niece, Miss Lucy Alexander, with Mr.
     Edward C. Humes, she made her home, living continuously in this
     town since her marriage, and having survived her husband for the
     long period of thirty-seven years, being that length of time a
     widow.

The biographers of President Lincoln have none of them given these facts
because they did not know them, nor was the President himself aware of
them. Of their authenticity so far as the relationship of Mr. Lincoln
with the family of Winters is concerned, I have no doubt. His ancestry
in this country, paternal and maternal--Lincoln, Boone, and Winters--is
to be traced to the county of Berks, Pennsylvania.

A roving child of the forest, where there were not even village schools,
Abraham Lincoln had little early culture, but his vigorous native
intellect sought information wherever it could be obtained with limited
means and opportunities, and overcame almost insuperable obstacles. His
quick perception and powers of observation and reflection, and his
retentive memory were remarkable; his judgment was good, his mental
grasp and comprehension equal to any emergency, his intentions were
always honest, and his skill and tact, with a determination to always
maintain the right, begot confidence and made him successful and great.
Party opponents imputed his success under difficulties that seemed
insurmountable to craft and cunning; but while not deficient in
shrewdness, his success was the result not of deceptive measures or wily
intrigue, but of wisdom and fidelity with an intuitive sagacity that
seldom erred as to measures to be adopted, or the course to be pursued.
It may be said of him, that he possessed inherently a master mind, and
was innately a leader of men. He listened, as I have often remarked,
patiently to the advice and opinions of others, though he might differ
from them; treated unintentional errors with lenity, was forbearing, and
kind to mistaken subordinates, but ever true to his own convictions. He
gathered information and knowledge whenever and wherever he had
opportunity, but quietly put aside assumption and intrusive attempt to
unduly influence and control him.

Like all his Cabinet, with the exception of Mr. Blair, who had been
educated at West Point, he was without military pretension when he
entered upon his executive duties and encountered at the very threshold
a civil war which had been long maturing, was deeply seated, and in its
progress was almost unprecedented in magnitude. Neither he nor any of
his advisers had personal, official, practical experience in
administering the civil service of the Federal Government. The
commencement of hostilities, before they had time to become familiar
with their duties, imposed upon each and all labors and cares beyond
those of any of their predecessors. To these were added the conduct of
military operations as novel as they were responsible. Unprepared as the
country was for the sudden and formidable insurrection, the
Administration was not less so, yet it was compelled at once to meet it,
make preparations, call out immense armies, and select officers to
organize and command them.

These commanders were most of them educated military officers, but
possessed of limited experience. Their lives had been passed on a peace
establishment, and they were consequently without practical knowledge.
Many of these, as well as such officers as were selected from civil
life, seemed bewildered by their sudden preferment, and appeared to
labor under the impression that they were clothed not only with military
but civil authority. Some in the higher grades imagined that in addition
to leading armies and fighting battles, they had plenary power to
administer the Government and prescribe the policy to be pursued in
their respective departments. Much difficulty and no small embarrassment
was caused by their mistaken assumptions and acts, in the early part of
the war.

J. C. Fremont, the western explorer, a political candidate for the
Presidency in 1856, and made a major general by President Lincoln at the
beginning of the rebellion in 1861, was assigned to the command of the
western department. He evidently considered himself clothed with
proconsular powers; that he was a representative of the Government in a
civil capacity as well as military commander, and soon after
establishing his headquarters at St. Louis assumed authority over the
slavery question which the President could neither recognize nor permit.
General Hunter, at Port Royal, and General Phelps, in the Gulf, each
laboring under the same error, took upon themselves to issue
extraordinary manifestoes that conflicted with the Constitution and
laws, on the subject of slavery, which the President was compelled to
disavow. The subject, if to be acted upon, was administrative and
belonged to the Government and civil authorities--not to military
commanders. But there was a feeling in Congress and the country which
sympathized with the radical generals in these anti-slavery decrees,
rather than with the law, and the Executive in maintaining it. The
Secretary of War, under whom these generals acted, not inattentive to
current opinion, also took an extraordinary position, and in his annual
report enunciated a policy in regard to the slavery question, without
the assent of the President and without even consulting him. Mr. Lincoln
promptly directed the assuming portion of the report, which had already
been printed, to be cancelled; but the proceeding embarrassed the
Administration and contributed to the retirement of Mr. Cameron from the
Cabinet. These differences in the army, in the Administration, and among
the Republicans in Congress, extended to the people. A radical faction
opposed to the legal, cautious, and considerate policy of the President
began to crystallize and assume shape and form, which, while it did not
openly oppose the President, sowed the seeds of discontent against his
policy and the general management of public affairs.

The military operations of the period are not here detailed or alluded
to, except incidentally when narrating the action of the Administration
in directing army movements and shaping the policy of the Government.
Nearly one-third of the States were, during the Presidency of Mr.
Lincoln, unrepresented in the national councils, and in open rebellion.
A belt of border States, extending from the Delaware to the Rocky
mountains, which, though represented in Congress, had a divided
population, was distrustful of the President. Yielding the
Administration a qualified support, and opposed to the Government in
almost all its measures, was an old organized and disciplined party in
all the free States, which seemed to consider its obligations to party
paramount to duty to the country. This last, if it did not boldly
participate with the rebels, was an auxiliary, and as a party, hostile
to the Administration, and opposed to nearly every measure for
suppressing the insurrection.

There were among the friends of the Administration, and especially
during its last two years, radical differences, which in the first
stages of the war were undeveloped. The mild and persuasive temper of
the President, his generous and tolerant disposition, and his kind and
moderate forbearance toward the rebels, whom he invited and would
persuade to return to their allegiance and their duty, did not
correspond with the schemes and designs of the extreme and violent
leaders of the Republican party. They had other objects than
reconstruction to attain, were implacable and revengeful, and some with
ulterior radical views thought the opportunity favorable to effect a
change of administration.

These had for years fomented division, encouraged strife, and were as
ultra and as unreasonable in their demands and exactions as the
secessionists. Some had welcomed war with grim satisfaction, and were
for prosecuting it unrelentingly with fire and sword to the annihilation
of the rights, and the absolute subversion of the Southern States and
subjection of the Southern people. There was in their ranks unreasoning
fanaticism, and ferocity that partook of barbarism, with a mixture of
political intrigue fatal to our Federal system. These men, dissatisfied
with President Lincoln, accused him of temporizing, of imbecility, and
of sympathy with the rebels because he would not confiscate their whole
property, and hang or punish them as pirates or traitors. These radical
Republicans, as they were proud to call themselves, occupied, like all
extreme men in high party and revolutionary times, the front rank of
their party, and, though really a minority, gave tone and character to
the Republican organization. Fired with avenging zeal, and often
successful in their extreme views, though to some extent checked and
modified by the President, they were presuming, and flattered themselves
they could, if unsuccessful with Mr. Lincoln, effect a change in the
administration of the Government in 1864 by electing a President who
would conform to their ultra demands. Secret meetings and whispered
consultations were held for that purpose, and for a time aspiring and
calculating politicians gave them encouragement; but it soon became
evident that the conservative sentiment of the Republicans and the
country was with Mr. Lincoln, and that the confidence of the people in
his patriotism and integrity was such as could not be shaken.
Nevertheless, a small band of the radicals held out and would not assent
to his benignant policy. These malcontents undertook to create a
distinct political organization which, if possessed of power, would make
a more fierce and unrelenting war on the rebels, break down their local
institutions, overturn their State governments, subjugate the whites,
elevate the blacks, and give not only freedom to the slaves, but by
national decree override the States, and give suffrage to the whole
<DW52> race. These extreme and rancorous notions found no favor with
Mr. Lincoln, who, though nominally a Whig in the past, had respect for
the Constitution, loved the Federal Union, and had a sacred regard for
the rights of the States, which the Whigs as a party did not entertain.
War two years after secession commenced brought emancipation, but
emancipation did not dissolve the Union, consolidate the Government, or
clothe it with absolute power; nor did it impair the authority and
rights which the States had reserved. Emancipation was a necessary, not
a revolutionary measure, forced upon the Administration by the
secessionists themselves, who insisted that slavery which was local and
sectional should be made national.

The war was, in fact, defensive on the part of the Government against a
sectional insurrection which had seized the fortresses and public
property of the nation; a war for the maintenance of the Union, not for
its dissolution; a war for the preservation of individual, State, and
Federal rights; good administration would permit neither to be
sacrificed nor one to encroach on the other. The necessary exercise of
extraordinary war powers to suppress the Rebellion had given
encouragement and strength to the centralists who advocated the
consolidation and concentration of authority in the general Government
in peace as well as war, and national supervision over the States and
people. Neither the radical enthusiasts nor the designing centralists
admitted or subscribed to the doctrine that political power emanated
from the people; but it was the theory of both that the authority
exercised by the States was by grant derived from the parental or
general Government. It was their theory that the Government created the
States, not that the States and people created the Government. Some of
them had acquiesced in certain principles which were embodied in the
fundamental law called the Constitution; but the Constitution was in
their view the child of necessity, a mere crude attempt of the theorists
of 1776, who made successful resistance against British authority, to
limit the power of the new central Government which was substituted for
that of the crown. For a period after the Revolution it was admitted
that feeble limitations on central authority had been observed, though
it was maintained that those limitations had been obstructions to our
advancing prosperity, the cause of continual controversy, and had
gradually from time to time been dispensed with, broken down, or made to
yield to our growing necessities. The civil war had made innovations--a
sweep, in fact, of many constitutional barriers--and radical
consolidationists like Thaddeus Stevens and Henry Winter Davis felt that
the opportunity to fortify central authority and establish its supremacy
should be improved.

These were the ideas and principles of leading consolidationists and
radicals in Congress who were politicians of ability, had studied the
science of government, and were from conviction opponents of reserved
rights and State sovereignty and of a mere confederation or Federal
Union, based on the political equality and reserved sovereignty of the
States, but insisted that the central Government should penetrate
further and act directly on the people. Few of these had given much
study or thought to fundamental principles, the character and structure
of our Federal system, or the Constitution itself. Most of them, under
the pressure of schemers and enthusiasts, were willing to assume and
ready to exercise any power deemed expedient, regardless of the organic
law. Almost unrestrained legislation to carry on the war induced a
spirit of indifference to constitutional restraint, and brought about an
assumption by some, a belief by others, that Congress was omnipotent;
that it was the embodiment of the national will, and that the other
departments of the Government as well as the States were subordinate and
subject to central Congressional control. Absolute power, the
centralists assumed and their fanatical associates seemed to suppose,
was vested in the legislative body of the country, and its decrees,
arbitrary and despotic, often originating in and carried first by a
small vote in party caucus, were in all cases claimed to be decisive,
and to be obeyed by the Executive, the judiciary, and the people,
regardless of the Constitution. Parliamentary discussions were not
permitted, or of little avail. The acts of caucus were despotic,
mandatory, and decisive. The several propositions and plans of President
Lincoln to reestablish the Union, and induce the seceding States to
resume their places and be represented in Congress, were received with
disfavor by the radical leaders, who, without open assault, set in
motion an undercurrent against nearly every Executive proposition as the
weak and impotent offspring of a well meaning and well intentioned, but
not very competent and intelligent mind. It was the difference between
President Lincoln and the radical leaders in Congress on the question of
reconciliation, the restoration of the States, and the reestablishment
of the Union on the original constitutional basis, which more than even
his genial and tolerant feelings toward the rebels led to political
intrigue among Republican members of Congress for the nomination of new
candidates, and opposition to Mr. Lincoln's reelection in 1864. At one
period this intrigue seemed formidable, and some professed friends lent
it their countenance, if they did not actually participate in it, who
ultimately disavowed any connection with the proceeding.

Singular ideas were entertained and began to be developed in
propositions of an extraordinary character, relative to the powers and
the construction of the Government, which were presented to Congress,
even in the first year of the war. Theoretical schemes from cultivated
intellects, as well as crude notions from less intellectual but extreme
men, found expression in resolutions and plans, many of which were
absurd and most of them impracticable and illegal. Foremost and
prominent among them were a series of studied and elaborate resolutions
prepared by Charles Sumner, and submitted to the Senate on the 11th of
February, 1862. Although presented at that early day, they were the germ
of the reconstruction policy adopted at a later period. In this plan or
project for the treatment of the insurrectionary States and the people
who resided in them, the Massachusetts Senator manifested little regard
for the fundamental law or for State or individual rights. The high
position which this Senator held in the Republican party and in Congress
and the country, his cultured mind and scholarly attainments, his ardent
if not always discreet zeal and efforts to free the slaves and endow the
whole <DW52> race, whether capable or otherwise, with all the rights
and privileges, socially and politically, of the educated and refined
white population whom they had previously served, his readiness and
avowed intention to overthrow the local State governments and the social
system where slavery existed, to subjugate the whites and elevate the
blacks, will justify a special notice; for it was one of the first, if
not the very first of the radical schemes officially presented to change
the character of the Government and the previously existing distinctions
between the races. His theory or plan may be taken as the pioneer of the
many wild and visionary projects of the central and abolition force,
that took shape and form not only during the war, but after hostilities
ceased and the rebels were subdued.

Mr. Sumner introduced his scheme with a preamble which declared, among
other things, that the "extensive territory" of the South had been
"usurped by pretended governments and organizations"; that "the
Constitution, which is the supreme law of the land, cannot be displaced
in its rightful operation within this territory, but must ever continue
the supreme law thereof, notwithstanding the doings of any pretended
governments acting singly or in confederation in order to put an end to
its supremacy." Therefore:

     _Resolved_, 1st. That any vote of secession, or other act by which
     any State may undertake to put an end to the supremacy of the
     Constitution within its territory, is inoperative and void against
     the Constitution, and when sustained by force it becomes a
     practical _abdication_ by the State of all rights under the
     Constitution, while the treason which it involves still further
     works an instant _forfeiture_ of all those functions and powers
     essential to the continued existence of the State as a body
     politic, so that from that time forward the territory falls under
     the exclusive jurisdiction of Congress as other territory, and the
     State, being, according to the language of the law, _felo de se_,
     ceases to exist.

     2d. That any combination of men assuming to act in the place of
     such State, attempting to ensnare or coerce the inhabitants thereof
     into a confederation hostile to the Union, is rebellious,
     treasonable, and destitute of all moral authority; and that such
     combination is a usurpation incapable of any constitutional
     existence and utterly lawless, so that everything dependent upon it
     is without constitutional or legal support.

     3d. That the termination of a State under the Constitution
     necessarily causes the termination of those peculiar local
     institutions which, having no origin in the Constitution, or in
     those natural rights which exist Independent of the Constitution,
     are upheld by the sole and exclusive authority of the State.

     ... Congress will assume complete jurisdiction of such vacated
     territory where such unconstitutional and illegal things have been
     attempted, and will proceed to establish therein republican forms
     of government under the Constitution.

It is not shown how a usurpation or illegal act by conspirators in any
State or States could justify or make legal a usurpation by the general
Government, as this scheme evidently was, nor by what authority Congress
could declare that the illegal, inoperative, and void acts of usurpers
who might have temporary possession of or be a majority in a State,
could constitute a practical abdication by the State itself of all
rights under the Constitution, regardless of the rights of a legal,
loyal minority, guilty of no usurpation or attempted secession--the
innocent victims of a conspiracy; nor where Congress or the Federal
Government obtained authority to pronounce "an instant _forfeiture_ of
all those functions and powers essential to the continued existence of a
State as a body politic, so that from that time forward the territory
falls under the exclusive jurisdiction of Congress as other territory,
and the State, being, according to the language of the law, _felo de
se_, ceases to exist."

The administration of Mr. Buchanan had laid down as a rule of
government that a State could not be coerced. The whole country not in
rebellion had declared there should be no secession, division, or
destruction of the Federal Union, but here was the most conspicuous
leader of the Republican party in the Senate proposing a scheme to
punish a State, to annihilate and destroy its government, to
territorialize it, to exclude or expel it from the Union, to make no
discrimination in its exclusions and denunciations between the loyal and
disloyal inhabitants, but to punish alike, without trial or conviction,
the just and the unjust. There were, though he was unwilling to admit
it, and was perhaps unaware of it, vindictive feelings, venom, and
revenge in his resolutions and in his whole treatment of the States and
the white people of the South. From the time that he had been stricken
down by the bludgeon of Brooks in the Senate, Mr. Sumner waged
unrelenting war on the whites in the Southern States, and seemed to
suppose it was his special mission--he certainly made it the great
object of his life--to elevate the <DW64> race--to give them at least
equal rights and privileges with the educated and refined class--and did
not conceal his intention and expectation to bring them in as
auxiliaries to the Republican party, and thereby give it permanent
ascendancy. All this was done in the name of humanity, and with apparent
self-convinced sincerity. He was unwilling to acknowledge that he was
governed or influenced by personal resentments in his revolutionary
plans to degrade the intelligent white and exalt the ignorant black
population by tearing down the constitutional edifice. In frequent
interviews which I held with him then and at later periods, when he
found it impossible to hold his positions under the Constitution, he
claimed that he occupied higher ground, and that his authority for these
violent measures was the Declaration of Independence, which declared all
men were born equal, etc. Mr. Sumner was an idealist--neither a
constitutionalist nor a practical statesman. He could pull down, but he
could not construct--could declare what he considered humane, right, and
proper, and act upon it regardless of constitutional compromises or
conventional regulations which were the framework of the Government. No
man connected with the Administration, or in either branch of Congress,
was more thoroughly acquainted with our treaties, so familiar with the
traditions of the Government, or better informed on international law
than Charles Sumner; but on almost all other Governmental questions he
was impulsive and unreliable, and when his feelings were enlisted,
imperious, dogmatical, and often unjust.

Why innocent persons who were loyal to the Government and the Union
should be disfranchised and proscribed because their neighbors and
fellow citizens had engaged in a conspiracy, he could not explain or
defend. By what authority whole communities and States should be
deprived of the local governments which their fathers had framed, under
which they were born, and with the provisions and traditions of which
they were familiar, was never told.

His propositions found no favor with the Administration, nor were they
supported at the beginning by any considerable number even of the
extremists in Congress. It required much training by the centralizing
leaders for years and all the tyranny of caucus machinery after the
death of Mr. Lincoln to carry them into effect by a series of
reconstruction measures that were revolutionary in their character, and
which to a certain extent unsettled the principles on which the
Government was founded.

But the counsel and example of the distinguished Senator from
Massachusetts were not without their influence. Resolutions by radical
Republicans and counter resolutions, chiefly by Democrats, relative to
the powers and limitations of the Federal Government and the status of
States, followed in quick succession. On the 11th of June, the subject
having been agitated and discussed for four months, Mr. Dixon, a
Republican Senator from Connecticut, whose views coincided in the main
with those of Mr. Lincoln and the Administration, submitted, after
consultation and advisement, the following:

     _Resolved_, That all acts or ordinances of secession, alleged to
     have been adopted by any legislature or convention of the people of
     any State, are as to the Federal Union absolutely null and void;
     and that while such acts may and do subject the individual actors
     therein to forfeitures and penalties, they do not, in any degree,
     affect the relations of the State wherein they purport to have been
     adopted to the Government of the United States, but are as to such
     Government acts of rebellion, insurrection, and hostility on the
     part of the individuals engaged therein, or giving assent thereto;
     and that such States are, notwithstanding such acts or ordinances,
     members of the Federal Union, and as such are subject to all the
     obligations and duties imposed upon them by the Constitution of the
     United States; and the loyal citizens of such States are entitled
     to all the rights and privileges thereby guaranteed or conferred.

The resolution of Dixon traversed the policy of Sumner and was the
Executive view of the questions that were agitated in Congress as to the
effect of the rebellion and the condition of the States in insurrection.
The Administration did not admit that rebellion dissolved the Union or
destroyed its federative character; nor did it adopt or assent to the
novel theory that the States and the whole people residing in them had
forfeited all sovereignty and all reserved State and individual rights,
because a portion of the inhabitants had rebelled; nor did it admit that
the usurpation of a portion of any community could bring condemnation
and punishment on all. The usurpations and acts of the rebels were
considered not legal acts, but nullities.

                                        GIDEON WELLES.




LUCILLE'S LETTER.


   Out of the dreary distance and the dark
   I stretch forth praying palms--yet not to pray;
   Hands fold themselves for heaven, while mine, alas!
         Are sundered--held your way.

   Brief moments have been ours, yet bright as brief;
   Oh! how I live them over, one by one,
   Now that the endless days, bereft of you,
         Creep slowly, sadly on.

   Garnered in memory, those bewildering hours,
   A golden harvest of enchantment yield;
   Here, like a pale, reluctant Ruth, I glean
         A cold and barren field--

   Barren without a shelter: and the hedge
   Is made of thorns and brambles. If I fain
   Would lean beyond the barrier, do you see
         The wounding and the stain?

   Did God make us to mock us, on the earth?
   Why did he fuse our spirits by His word,
   Then set His awful Angel in our path,
         His Angel with the sword?

   Why, when I contrite kneel confessing all,
   And seek with tears the way to be forgiven--
   Why do your pleading eyes look sadly down
         Between my face and heaven?

   Why does my blood thrill at your fancied touch--
   Stop and leap up at your ideal caress?
   Ah, God! to feel that dear warm mouth on mine
         In lingering tenderness!

   To lie at perfect peace upon your heart,
   Your arms close folded round me firm and fast,
   My cheek to yours--oh, vision dear as vain!
         That would be home at last.

   Leon, you are my curse, my blessing too,
   My hell, my heaven, my storm that wrecks to save:
   Life daunts me, and the shadows lengthen out
         Beyond the grave.

                                        MARY L. RITTER.




SOME OLD ALMANACKS.


Do you know, gentle reader, what an interesting, valuable, and useful
book an "Almanack" once was? You are gorged with books, and newspapers
lie about thick as leaves in Vallambrosa. Do you ever buy an Almanac for
five cents? I trow not. Therefore you do not know how much careful
calculation, skill, and knowledge are to be had for that small piece of
money.

Therefore you cannot sit down in the evening and pore over its mystic
signs. Indeed, I fear you do not know what a zodiac is, or what the
meaning of "Cancer the Crab" and "Gemini the Twins" may be. It is more
than likely you will reply, "Oh, yes; if the Crab had a Cancer, he would
cry Gemini to the Twins"--and in that light and flippant way you will
try to hide your brutal ignorance, if a male, your shallow
understanding, if a female.

Now I have just had a sort of musty satisfaction in looking over some
old Almanacs, which dated as far back as 1727. They seem to have been
the property of somebody whose letters were W. S. His almanacs were so
prized that he had interleaved them, and then he recorded his profound
observations. He thus had learned, what I fear you have not, that the
moon had many mysterious influences besides making the tides rise and
fall, if it does. It seems, if we can believe "A Native of New England,"
who made B. Greene's Almanack for 1731, that the "Moon has dominion over
man's body," and that when she gets into "Cancer the Crab" you must
expect every sort of bedevilment in your breast and stomach. When she
gets into "Gemini," the same in your arms and shoulders. When she is in
"Scorpio" your bowels and belly are in danger, and so on all through
your body; so that we might well enough wish the moon were wholly
abolished; for the little wishy-washy light she gives to lovers and
thieves is not at all a balance for such fearful threatenings.

Who was the "Native of New England" is a secret, and well it is, for in
1727 he graced his title-page with this poem:

              ----Man--that Noble Creature,
   Scanted of time, and stinted by Weak Nature,
   That in foretimes saw jubilees of years,
   As by our Ancient History appears;
   Nay, which is more, even Silly Women then,
   Liv'd longer time than our grave Graybeard Men.

"Graced," did I say? May we not put a _dis_ before it? "Silly Women!"
"Noble Creature!" Did the Native mean that woman then was silly and man
then noble? Well for him is it that our "Mrs. Ward Howes" and "Mrs.
Lillie Blakes" cannot make rhymes upon _his_ name; well for him that he
went his way holding his mantle before his face.

But he himself did not hold himself lightly. He knew all about Apoge and
Perige (we now spell them Apogee and Perigee). But does the Radical Club
itself know anything at all about Apogee and Perigee? He knew when some
"fine moderate weather" would come, when "winds enough for several"
would blow, when "bad weather for hoop petticoats" would be; and that
was on the 29th and 30th of January, 1727. Fearful weather, we may
believe; but he, the _Native_, knew. But alas for us! On the 2d, he puts
it down as "sloppy and raw cold." Now it so chances that W. S. has kept
his MS. notes against this day, and he has it "_Very fine and
pleasant_," and the next day, "_Dry and dusty._" Lamentable indeed for
the Native! But he is not to be shaken for all that; he prognosticates
through all the year just as if all was to come exactly right. One would
like to know what W. S. thought of his prognosticator, and if he kept on
studying and believing just the same as if all had come right. _I_ do
not doubt he did.

And now we come to some positive statements about Eclipses, and learn
what we may depend on in that quarter.

The Native goes on to say, "As to the effects, they chiefly affect those
Men that live by their Ingenuity; I mean Painters, Poets, Mercurialists,
&c." What is a mercurialist? Does he mean the worshippers of Mercury,
thieves, and that sort? "But"--and mark the cautious tone here--"but
whether it forbodes good or ill to them I shall not now determine; only
advise them to prepare for the worst!" Pretty good advice in all times
of eclipse; and in these days even when there is no eclipse. Mark his
modesty: "I do not pretend to Infallibility in my Conjectures, yet (as I
said last year) they many times come out too True to make a jest of."
Then he goes on: "I have read of a story which _Thaurus_ is said to
relate of _Andreas Vesalius_, a great Astrologer who lived in the reign
of _Henry the VIII._; to wit, that he told _Maximilian_ the Day and Hour
of his Death, who, giving credit thereto, ordered a great feast to be
made, inviting his Friends, sat and Eat [ate?] with them; and
afterwards, having distributed his Treasures among them, took leave of
them and Dyed at the time predicted." Most kind of this Maximilian, for
it must have secured a good patronage to the astrologers.

"Yet it does not from hence follow that a certain rule may be laid
down"--a very fine astrologer, you perceive, may fail--"whereby exactly
to discover the Divine appointments. But there are many concurring
Causes of Mundane Accidents of which Humanity must be content to remain
Ignorant, and (as a wise Author affirms) No Index can be found or formed
whereby to give us any certain Diary or Destiny saving that of our
dear-bought Experience." But how can we learn about our own dying by
experience--which is what we die to know about? He continues: "And here
I cannot but take notice of our _Negro-mancers_, who, under pretence of
knowledge in the Motions of the _Heavens_, take upon them to Fore tell
the Appointments of Fate with respect to particular Persons, and thereby
betray the Ignorant part of the World Inevitably into the Worship of the
Devil. But if the Wholesome Laws of the Province were duly executed on
such _Negro-mancers_, I could venture to Fore tell what would soon be
their Fortune; You may Read it at large in this Province, New Law Book,
_page_ 117.

   "_Marblehead_, Sept. 28, 1726.

   "N. Bowen."

Ah, friend Bowen was too alarmingly near the Salem witch times when
Minister Parris and Judge Hawthorne had come so nigh putting the Devil
to rout by hanging an old woman or two and squeezing poor Giles Cory to
death. He knew what the Law could do to those wicked <DW64>-mancers if
they went about predicting things in a wicked way. And what a bore it
might become to have a <DW64>-mancer foretelling in a rash and
miscellaneous way one's death and bringing it to pass too some fine and
inconvenient day! Who would not hang a <DW64>-mancer like that?

But suppose they should go on and squeeze the life out of such mild
negromancers as N. Bowen, Esq., too. What then?

In 1729 we get an Almanac made by a student _with_ a name--Nathaniel
Ames, junior, _student in Physick and Astronomy_. He does not apply his
intellect to such great speculations as Bowen grappled with, but runs
easily into poetry of the true Homeric stamp. Listen:

_January_--

   The Earth is white like NEPTUNE's foamy face,
   When his proud Waves the hardy Rocks embrace.

_February_--

   Boreas's chilly breath attacks our Nature,
   And turns the Presbyterian to a Quaker.

What wicked waggery is here hidden, who can tell? One thing is sure,
that Februarys ought to be abolished by the General Court if such is
true; for a Quaker then was an abominable thing.

_March_--

   Phoebus and Mars conjoined do both agree,
   This month shall Warm (nay, more than usual) be.

We pray that our Almanac makers will conjoin Phoebus and Mars in all
our Marches hereafter, so that we too may "Warm (more than usual) be."
How melodious that line!

_April_ gives a sweet strain, possibly premature--

   The Birds, like Orphans, now all things invite
   To come and have Melodious, sweet delight.

Like Orphans! Why? Should _Orpheus_ come in there, or are orphans
children of Orpheus? We are perplexed. The words sound alike.

   _May_ like a Virgin quickly yields her Charms,
   To the Embrace of Winter's Icy Arms.

It is not easy to see how that can be. Does he mean that winter had come
back and given May a late frost? And then Virgins do not, so far as I
know, yield to the Embrace of Winter's Icy Arms. Do they? I ask persons
of experience.

_June_ comes upon us heavily--

   SOL's scorching Ray puts Blood in Fermentation,
   And is stark raught to acts of Procreation.

That has a terrible sound. What does he mean?

_July_--

   The Moon (this Month), that pale-faced Queen of Night,
   Will be disrobed of all her borrowed light.

No month for lover's madness, this. Not a lover can steal forth by the
light of the moon, or do any foolish thing this month, thanks be to God!

_August_--

   The Earth and Sky Resound with Thunder Loud,
   And Oblique streams flash from the dusky Cloud.

That first line demands many capital letters, and what a fine word
Oblique is in the second.

_September_ says--

   The burthened earth abounds with various fruit,
   Which doth the Epicurean's Palate Suit.

It is to be hoped these wicked Epicureans got no more than their share,
and that church members were not converted to the heathen philosophy by
such baits.

_October_--

   The Tyrant Mars old Saturn now opposes,
   Which stirs up Feuds and may make bloody Noses.

October then was the fighter's month. This begins nobly, but ends
waggishly.

_November_--

   Now what remains to Comfort up our lives,
   But Cordial Liquor and kind, loving Wives?

"Comfort up," that is good. But the Cordial Liquor is doubtful; and then
are there no girls in the sweet bloom of maidenhood left to Comfort up
our lives? Sad indeed!

_December_ closes up--

   The Chrystal streams, congealed to Icy Glass,
   Become fit roads for Travellers to pass.

Excellent for the travellers.

But now in the column of "Mutations of Weather," we find this":

       "Christmas is nigh;
   The bare name of it
     to Rich or Poor
       will be no profit."

We are startled. Does he mean to speak ill of Christmas--to stab it? We
look again. No--it is that Christmas without roast Turkeys and Mince
pies will be very bad. The "bare _name_"--that is what he will none of.
But on the contrary the real thing he will have, with Roasts and bakes,
and--possibly--Cordial Liquor to "Comfort up" the day. What a good word
that "Comfort up" is. We thank Nathaniel for it.

Now in the volume for 1730 are other interesting items, and the seer and
poet seems to be our old friend, Nathan Bowen. He inclines somewhat to
poetry also, for he thus sings:

   Saturn in Thirty Years his Ring Compleats,
   Which Swiftest Jupiter in Twelve repeats;
   Mars Three and Twenty Months revolving spends,
   The Earth in Twelve her Annual Journey Ends.
   Venus thy Race in twice Four Months is run,
   For his Mercurius Three demands. The Moon
   Her Revolution finishes in One.
   If all at Once are Mov'd, and by one Spring,
   Why so Unequal in their Annual Ring?"

Here again the sensitive soul, anxiously pondering, asks, Are students
of astronomy prone to infidelity, and does this last question mean to
convey the faintest shadow of a doubt? If not, why that "Why"?

We gladly pass on to another topic, hoping that Nathan was not damned
for skepticism.

"N. B.--The paper Mill mentioned in last year's almanack (at Milton) has
begun to go. Any person that will bring Rags to D. Henchman & T.
Hancock, shall have from 2d. to 6d. a pound according to their
goodness."

"Begun to go." I like that word. "Commenced operations," "started in
business": how new and poor those great three-syllabled words seem!
"Begun to go"--that is good.

In 1731 he tells us:

     "Ready money is now
        the best of Wares."
   "Some gain & some loose."

Dear, dear, how bad! Almost, not quite so miserable, as to-day--all lose
now.

Then he informs us officially what salutes are to be fired at Castle
William, as follows:

   March 1  Queen's Berthday                           21 guns.

   May 29   Restoration of K. Ch. II.                  17   "

   June 11  K. George II. accession                    21   "

   Oct. 11  K. G. II. coronation                       33   "

   Oct. 30  K. G. II. Berthday                         27   "

   Nov.  5  Powder Plot                                17   "

   Jan. 19  Prince of W. Berthday                      21   "

In 1732 the Native of New England (if it be Nathan Bowen of Marblehead)
takes hold again and breaks into song:

   Indulge, and to thy Genius freely give;
   For not to live at Ease is not to live.
   Death stalks behind thee, and each flying Hour
   Does some loose Remnant of thy Life devour.
   Live while thou livest, for Death shall make us all
   A Name of Nothing, but an Old Wife's Tale.
   Speak: wilt thou AVORICE or PLEASURE Chuse
   To be thy Lord? Take One & One Refuse.--_Perseus_.

We begin to fear indeed that Nathan is little better than one of those
wicked Epicureans himself. _Avorice_ or _Pleasure_. Take one? Must we
indeed? Pleasure? It looks as if Nathan was a very naughty man.

Things have evidently not gone quite smoothly with N. Bowen this last
year, for, in his "Kind Reader" of 1733, he says: "Having last year
finished Twelve of my Annual Papers [he means Almanacks], I proposed to
lay down my pen and leave the Drudgery of Calculation to those who have
more leisure and a Clearer Brain than I can pretend to. Indeed, the
Contempt with which a writer of Almanacks is looked on and the Danger he
is in of being accounted a Conjurer"--a <DW64>-mancer--"should seem
sufficient to deter a man from publishing anything of this kind. But
when I consider that all this is the effect of Ignorance, and,
therefore, not worth my Notice or Resentment, and that the most
judicious and learned part of the World have always highly valued and
esteemed such Undertakings as what are not only great and noble in
themselves; but as they are of absolute necessity in the Business and
Affairs of Life, I am induced to appear again in the World, and hope
this will meet with the same kind acceptance with my former."

With me he meets with the same kind acceptance, for I believe in the
Nobility of the Almanac; and it is certain that every man should believe
in the Nobility of his work whatever it is--then he is sure of _one_
ardent Admirer. It is sad to think that some carping critic had been
riling the sweet soul of Nathan in the year 1732. It is all over now.
Let us hope he is not damned for his Epicureanism, but is reaping his
crop of praise in a better climate than Marblehead. He gives us more
poetry in 1733, and a clear account of why Leap years are necessary,
which I do not repeat here, the popular belief being that they were
invented in order that maidens might if they wished make love to swains,
which belief I would do nothing to shake.

In the next year we have quite a learned discourse about the Julian AEra,
Epochs, Olympiads, etc., from which I can only venture to take the
following concise and valuable and accurate statement of this
astronomer:

"JESUS CHRIST the SAVIOUR of the World was Incarnate in the 4,713 year
of the Julian Period; the 3,949 of the Creation, the 4th of the 194th
Olympiad, and the 753 Currant Year of the Roman Foundation."

Persons having any doubts as to the time of our blessed Saviour's
appearance had better cut this out and keep it carefully for future
reference and for the confusion of "skepticks."

Let us not leave these interesting vestiges of an earlier creation
without a few words as to W. S. He, as I have said, was the purchaser
and owner of these sacred books. His almanacs were carefully interleaved
and evidently were intended to be not only a record of the wisdom of the
"Students in Physick and Astronomy," but also of events in the lives of
devout owners. We find W. S. begins with fervor and fidelity to record
daily interesting facts such as, in February:

"Fine, somewhat cold.

"Very pleasant.

"A storm of snow.

"More snow, but clears away windy.

"A very fine day.

"_Idem_, but windy."

Aha! here, then, we have a man who knew _Latin_ in the Year of our Lord
1727. "_Idem_"--that is such a good word that he uses it often, and it
has a good sound, too. Through January, February, March he attends daily
to this high duty, and tells us how it was:

"A bright morning, but a dull day.

"Windy.

"Cool."

On the 27th, "Much rain, a violent storm, snow'd up."

In April things change. His interest flags. He does not write down his
record every day. Has W. S. grown lazy? Is it too warm for assiduous
tasks, or has a new element come into his life? Let us see. He begins
April:

"1. A clearer day.

"2. Set my clock forward 20 m.

"3. Lethfield arrived from London."

The clock--that, I believe, was the great event, and that it came from
London. What may it have been? Clearly one of those tall, stately pieces
with the moon and the sun showing their faces on the silver dial, the
fine mahogany case worthy to uphold all. Where is that clock now? Who
can tell? From this time forth this was the object of interest, for in
nearly all the months we have this record, "Set my clock." He grows
terribly indifferent to the weather. A clock then was a wonderful thing,
and it is a wonderful thing now. Think of it. How these little wheels
and springs are so contrived that they tick the seconds and the minutes
and the hours day and night, so that Father Time might himself set his
watch by some of them. But then it was a rarer and a more interesting
thing than now. We can easily fancy the neighbors gathering to see the
fine clock standing in its place in the hall, telling its monotonous
tale all the nights and days.

But another interesting record now comes in. This, too, is an event--in
May:

"17. I bottled cyder."

And then in October again:

"20. Cyder come."

Cyder is not a thing to be despised even by a man who knows Latin. But
is not cyder an important thing to everybody? They had neither tea nor
coffee then, and man likes to drink. We may know, too, that in those
days every good woman made a few bottles of currant wine, made also her
rose cakes to sweeten her drawers, gathered and dried lavender to make
lavender-water, also sage and hoarhound, "good for sickness." Alas! that
people might be sick even in those "Good old Times," we know, and we
find that in January, 1727, W. S. puts down carefully this:

"A Recipe for y^e cure of Sciatica pains--viz.:

"Take 2 ounces of flowered brimstone, four ounces of Molasses. Mix y^m
together, and take a spoonfull morning and evening, and if y^t do not
effect a cure, take another spoonfull at noon also." You continue until
you get well, or--something!

Why endure sciatica pains after this? We make no charge for this
valuable knowledge.

But in June we find it put down:

"Mr. Davenport Chosen Tutor And confirmed by y^e overseers."

Here we have a clue to the Latin.

And in August is another entry:

"Governor Burnett, upon an invitation, came to visit y^e Coll:
besides---- y^e Civil Officers in Cambridge w^th some others, together
with y^e Masters of Art in College, were invited to dine w^th him. There
was an Oration in y^e hall by Sir Clark, some of y^e neighboring Clergie
were present, & about sixty persons in all had a handsome dinner in y^e
Library."

Here _was_ an event to be recorded. But was W. S. present? We remain in
the dark.

Entries now become more and more uncommon. We learn little more of the
clock or of the cyder; and we are at a loss to explain the reason why.
But lo! we have it! In November there is but one entry, on the

"21. _I was married_."

There is the gospel, without note or comment. To whom? We ask in vain.
"I was married," and that is all. But is not that enough? No more
records about clocks and cyder! What need of those things? Very few
entries are made in this year, and these are records of the thermometer.
Evidently a new one had come from London. But in October is a short and
significant record:

"19. Bille was born at 5 a clock morning."

It was inevitable--cause and effect--a striking example--most
philosophic! Had he black eyes or blue? Was he like his father or his
mother? Was he little or big? Did he weigh eight pounds or ten? Did he
live to be a man? None of these things are recorded, and we shall never
know. After this supreme event few entries appear in the diary through
the years. Life has become engrossing, important. Let us hope it was
sufficing and not full of failure and trouble; let us enjoy the pleasure
of believing so, as we well may. The clock, the cyder, the thermometer,
the little Bille: what more important matters had he or have we to
record? We part with the three, the four faint shadows, Nathaniel,
Nathan, W. S., and little Bille, with a mild regret, hoping we may meet
them, and especially "little Bille," on the other side. Till then
farewell.

                                        CHARLES WYLLYS ELLIOTT.




TO WALT WHITMAN.


   O Titan soul, ascend your starry steep
   On golden stair to gods and storied men!
   Ascend! nor care where thy traducers creep.
   For what may well be said of prophets when
   A world that's wicked comes to call them good?
   Ascend and sing! As kings of thought who stood
   On stormy heights and held far lights to men,
   Stand thou and shout above the tumbled roar,
   Lest brave ships drive and break against the shore.

   What though thy sounding song be roughly set?
   Parnassus' self is rough! Give thou the thought,
   The golden ore, the gems that few forget;
   In time the tinsel jewel will be wrought....
   Stand thou alone and fixed as destiny;
   An imaged god that lifts above all hate,
   Stand thou serene and satisfied with fate.
   Stand thou as stands that lightning-riven tree
   That lords the cloven clouds of gray Yosemite.

   Yea, lone, sad soul, thy heights must be thy home.
   Thou sweetest lover! love shall climb to thee,
   Like incense curling some cathedral dome
   From many distant vales. Yet thou shalt be,
   O grand, sweet singer, to the end alone.
   But murmur not. The moon, the mighty spheres,
   Spin on alone through all the soundless years;
   Alone man comes on earth; he lives alone;
   Alone he turns to front the dark Unknown.

   Then range thine upper world, nor stoop to wars.
   Walk thou the heights as walked the old Greeks when
   They talked to austere gods, nor turned to men.
   Teach thou the order of the singing stars.
   Behold, in mad disorder these are set,
   And yet they sing in ceaseless harmonies.
   They spill as jewels spilt through space. They fret
   The souls of men who measure melodies
   As they would measure slimy deeps of seas.

   Take comfort, O uncommon soul. Yet pray
   Lest ye grow proud in such exalted worth.
   Let no man reckon he excels. I say
   The laws of compensation compass earth,
   And no man gains without some equal loss:
   Each ladder round of fame becomes a rod,
   And he who lives must die upon a cross.
   The stars are far, but flowers bless the sod,
   And he who has the least of man has most of God.

                                        JOAQUIN MILLER.




MADCAP VIOLET.

BY WILLIAM BLACK.




CHAPTER XLIV.

JOY AND FEAR.


Was this man mad, that he, an invalid, propped up in his chair, and
scarcely able to move a wine-glass out of his way, should play pranks
with the whole created order of things, tossing about solar systems as
if they were no more than juggler's balls, and making universal systems
of philosophy jump through hoops as if he were a lion tamer in a den?
These poor women did not know where to catch him. Violet used to say
that he was like a prism, taking the ordinary daylight of life and
splitting it up into a thousand gay and glancing colors. That was all
very well as a spectacular exhibition; but how when he was apparently
instructing them in some serious matter? Was it fair to these tender
creatures who had so lovingly nursed him, that he should assume the airs
of a teacher, and gravely lead out his trusting disciples into the
desert places of the earth, when his only object was to get them into a
bog and then suddenly reveal himself as a will-o'-the-wisp, laughing at
them with a fiendish joy?

What, for example, was all this nonsense about the land question--about
the impossibility of settling it in England so long as the superstitious
regard for land existed in the English mind? They were quite ready to
believe him. They deprecated that superstition most sincerely. They
could not understand why a moneyed Englishman's first impulse was to go
and buy land; they could give no reason for the delusion existing in the
bosom of every Englishman that he, if no one else, could make money out
of the occupation of a farm that had ruined a dozen men in succession.
All this was very well; but what were they to make of his sudden
turning round and defending that superstition as the most beautiful
sentiment in human nature? It was, according to him, the sublimest
manifestation of filial love--the instinct of affection for the great
mother of us all. And then the flowers became our small sisters and
brothers; and the dumb look of appeal in a horse's eye, and the singing
of a thrush at the break of day--these were but portions of the
inarticulate language now no longer known to us. What was any human
being to make of this rambling nonsense?

It all came of the dress coat, and of his childish vanity in his white
wristbands. It was the first occasion on which he had ceremoniously
dressed for dinner; and Violet had come over; and he was as proud of his
high and stiff collar, and of his white necktie, as if they had been the
ribbon and star of a royal order. And then they were all going off the
next morning--Miss North included--to a strange little place on the
other side of the Isle of Wight; and he had gone "clean daft" with the
delight of expectation. There was nothing sacred from his mischievous
fancy. He would have made fun of a bishop. In fact he did; for,
happening to talk of inarticulate language, he described having seen
"the other day," in Buckingham Palace road, a bishop who was looking at
some china in a shop window; and he went on to declare how a young
person driving a perambulator, and too earnestly occupied with a sentry
on the other side of the road, incontinently drove that perambulator
right on to the carefully swathed toes of the bishop; and then he
devoted himself to analyzing the awful language which he _saw_ on the
afflicted man's face.

"But, uncle," said Amy Warrener, with the delightful freshness of
fifteen, "how could you see anybody in Buckingham Palace road the other
day, when you haven't been out of the house for months?"

"How?" said he, not a whit abashed. "How could I see him? I don't know,
but I tell you I did see him. With my eyes, of course."

He lost his temper, however, after all.

"To-morrow," he was saying, "I bid good-by to my doctor. I bear him no
malice; may he long be spared from having to meet in the next world the
people he sent there before him! But look here, Violet--to-morrow
evening we shall be _free_--and we shall celebrate our freedom, and our
first glimpse of a seashore, in Scotch whiskey--in hot Scotch
whiskey--in Scotch whiskey with the boilingest of boiling water, just
caught at the proper point of cooling. You don't know that point; I will
teach you; it is perfection. Don't you know that we have just caught the
cooling point of the earth--just that point in its transition from being
a molten mass to its becoming a chilled and played out stone that admits
of our living----"

"But, uncle," said Amy, "I thought the earth used to be far colder than
it is now. Remember the glacial period," added this profound student of
physics.

This was too much.

"Dear, dear me!" he exclaimed. "Am I to be brought up at every second by
a pert schoolgirl when I am expounding the mysteries of life? What have
your twopenny-halfpenny science primers to do with the grand secret of
toddy? I tell you we must _catch it at the cooling point_; and then,
Violet--for you are a respectful and attentive student--if the evening
is fine, and the air warm, and the windows open and looking out to the
south--do you think the doctor could object to that one first, faint
trial of a cigarette, just to make us think we are up again in the
August nights--off Isle Ornsay--with Aleck up at the bow singing that
hideous and melancholy song of his, and the Sea Pyot slowly creeping
along by the black islands?"

She did not answer at all; but for a brief moment her lip trembled. Amid
all this merriment she had sat with a troubled face, and with a sore and
heavy heart. She had seen in it but a pathetic bravado. He would drink
Scotch whiskey--he would once more light a cigarette--merely to assure
her that he was getting thoroughly well again; his laughter, his jokes,
his wild sallies were all meant, and she knew it, to give her strength
of heart and cheerfulness. She sat and listened, with her eyes cast
down. When she heard him talk lightly and playfully of all that he meant
to do, her heart throbbed, and she dared not lift her eyes to his face,
lest they should suddenly reveal to him that awful conflict within of
wild, and piteous, and agonizing doubt.

Then that reference to their wanderings in the northern seas--he did not
know how she trembled as he spoke. She could never even think of that
strange time she had spent up there, and of the terrible things that had
come of it, without a shudder. If she could have cut it out of her life
and memory altogether, that would have been well; but how could she
forget the agony of that awful farewell; the sense of utter loneliness
with which she saw the shores recede; the conviction then borne in upon
her--and never wholly eradicated from her mind--that some mysterious
doom had overtaken her, from which there was no escape. The influence of
that time, and of the time that succeeded it, still dwelt upon her, and
overshadowed her with its gloom. She had almost lost the instinct of
hope. She never doubted, when they carried young Dowse into that silent
room, but that he would die: was it not her province to bring misery to
all who were associated with her? And she had got so reconciled to this
notion that she did not argue the matter with herself; she had, for
example, no sense of bitterness in contrasting this apparent "destiny"
of hers with the most deeply-rooted feeling in her heart; namely, a
perfectly honest readiness to give up her own life if only that could
secure the happiness of those she loved. She did not even feel injured
because this was impossible. Things were so; and she accepted them.

But sometimes, in the darkness of her room, in the silence of the
night-time, when her heart seemed to be literally breaking with its
conflict of anxious love and returning despair, some wild notion of
propitiation--doubtless derived from ancient legends--would flash across
her mind; and she would cry in her agony, "If one must be taken, let it
be me! The world cares for him. What am I?" If she could only go out
into the open place of the city, and bare her bosom to the knife of the
priest, and call on the people to see how she had saved the life of her
beloved--surely that would be to die happy. What she had done, now that
she came to look back over it, seemed but too poor an expression of her
great love and admiration. What mattered it that a girl should give up
her friends and her home? Her life--her very life--that was what she
desired, when these wild fancies possessed her, to surrender freely, if
only she could know that she was rescuing him from the awful portals
that her despairing dread saw open before him, and was giving him
back--as she bade him a last farewell--to health, and joy, and the
comfort of many friends.

With other wrestlings in spirit, far more eager and real than these mere
fancies derived from myths, it is not within the province of the present
writer to deal; they are not for the house-tops or the market-places.
But it may be said that in all directions the gloomy influences of that
past time pursued her; wherever she went she was haunted by a morbid
fear that all her resolute will could not shake off. Where, for example,
could she go for sweeter consolation, for more cheering solace than to
the simple and reassuring services of the church? But before she
entered, eager to hear words of hope and strengthening, there was the
graveyard to pass through, with the misery of generations recorded on
its melancholy stones.




CHAPTER XLV.

"OH, GENTLE WIND THAT BLOWETH SOUTH."


But if this girl, partly through her great yearning love, and partly
through the overshadowing of her past sufferings, was haunted by a
mysterious dread, that was not the prevailing feeling within this small
household which was now pulling itself together for a flight to the
south. Even she caught something of the brisk and cheerful spirit
awakened by all the bustle of departure; and when her father, who had
come to London Bridge station to see the whole of them off, noticed the
businesslike fashion in which she ordered everybody about, so that the
invalid should have his smallest comforts attended to, he could not help
saying, with a laugh--

"Well, Violet, this is better than starting for America all by yourself,
isn't it? But I don't think you would have been much put out by that
either."

A smart young man came up, and was for entering the carriage.

"I beg your pardon," said she, respectfully but firmly. "This carriage
is reserved."

The young man looked at both windows.

"I don't see that it is," he retorted coolly.

He took hold of the handle of the door, when she immediately rose and
stood before him, an awful politeness and decorum on her face, but the
fire of Bruenhilde the warrior maiden in her eyes.

"You will please call the guard before coming in here. The carriage is
reserved."

At this moment her father came forward--not a little inclined to laugh.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but the carriage is really reserved. There was
a written paper put up--it has fallen down, I suppose--there it is."

So the smart young man went away; but was it fair, after this notable
victory, that they should all begin to make fun of her fierce and
majestic bearing, and that the very person for whose sake she had
confronted the enemy should begin to make ridiculous rhymes about her,
such as these:

   "Then out spake Violet Northimus--
   Of Euston Square was she--
   'Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
   And guard the door with thee!'"

Violet Northimus did not reply. She wore the modesty of a victor. She
was ready at any moment to meet six hundred such as he; and she was not
to be put out, after the discomfiture of her enemy, by a joke.

Then they slowly rolled and grated out of the station, and by-and-by the
swinging pace increased, and they were out in the clearer light and the
fresher air, with a windy April sky showing flashes of blue from time to
time. They went down through a succession of thoroughly English looking
landscapes--quiet valleys with red-tiled cottages in them, bare heights
green with the young corn, long stretches of brown and almost leafless
woods, with the rough banks outside all starred with the pale, clear
primrose. There was one in that carriage who had had no lack of flowers
that spring--flowers brought by many a kindly hand to brighten the look
of the sick room; but surely it was something more wonderful to see the
flowers themselves, growing here in this actual and outside world which
had been to him for many a weary week but a dimly imagined dreamland.
There were primroses under the hedges, primroses along the high banks,
primroses shining pale and clear within the leafless woods, among the
russet leaves of the previous autumn. And then the life and motion of
the sky, the southwesterly winds, the black and lowering clouds
suddenly followed by a wild and dazzling gleam of sunlight, the grays
and purples flying on and leaving behind them a welcome expanse of
shining April blue.

The day was certainly squally enough, and might turn to showers; but the
gusts of wind that blew through the carriage were singularly sweet and
mild; and again and again Mr. Drummond, who had been raised by all this
new life and light into the very highest spirits, declared with much
solemnity that he could already detect the smell of the salt sea air.
They had their quarrels of course. It pleased a certain young lady to
treat the south coast of England with much supercilious contempt. You
would have imagined from her talk that there was something criminal in
one's living even within twenty miles of the bleak downs, the shabby
precipices, and the muddy sea which, according to her, were the only
recognizable features of our southern shores. She would not admit indeed
that there was any sea at all there; there was only churned chalk. Was
it fair to say, even under the exasperation of continual goading, that
the Isle of Wight was only a trumpery toy shop; that its "scenery" was
fitly adorned with bazaars for the sale of sham jewelry; that its
amusements were on a par with those of Rosherville gardens; that its
rocks were made of mud and its sea of powdered lime?

"By heavens," exclaimed her antagonist, "I will stand this no longer. I
will call upon Neptune to raise such a storm in the Solent as shall
convince you that there is quite enough sea surrounding that pearl of
islands, that paradise, that world's wonder we are going to visit."

"Yes, I have no doubt," said she with sweet sarcasm, "that if you
stirred the Solent with a teaspoon, you would frighten the yachtsmen
there out of their wits."

"Oh, Violet," cried another young lady, "you know you were dreadfully
frightened that night in Tobermory bay, when the equinoctial gales
caught us, and the men were tramping overhead all night long."

"I should be more frightened down here," was the retort, "because if we
were driven ashore I should be choked first and drowned afterward. Fancy
going out of the world with a taste of chalk in your mouth."

"Well, at this moment the fierce discussion was stopped by the arrival
of the train at Portsmouth; but here a very singular incident occurred.
Violet was the first to step out on to the platform.

"You have a tramway car that goes down to the pier, have you not?" she
asked of the guard.

"Ain't going to-day, miss," was the answer. "Boats can't come in to
Southsea--the sea is very high. You'll have to go to Portsea, miss."

Now, what was this man's amazement on seeing this young lady suddenly
burst out laughing as she turned and looked into the carriage.

"Did you hear that?" she cried. "The Solent is raging! They can't come
near Southsea! Don't you think, Mrs. Warrener, that it will be very
dangerous to go to Portsea?"

"I'll tell you what it is," said Mrs. Warrener with a malicious smile,
"if a certain young lady I know were to be ill in crossing, she would be
a good deal more civil to her native country when she reached the other
side."

But in good truth, when they got down to Portsea there was a pretty
stiff breeze blowing; and the walk out on the long pier was not a little
trying to an invalid who had but lately recovered the use of his limbs.
The small steamer, too, was tossing about considerably at her moorings;
and Violet pretended to be greatly alarmed because she did not see
half-a-dozen lifeboats on board. Then the word was given; the cables
thrown off; and presently the tiny steamer was running out to the windy
and gray-green sea, the waves of which not unfrequently sent a shower of
spray across her decks. The small party of voyagers crouched behind the
funnel, and were well out of the water's way.

"Look there now," cried Mr. Drummond, suddenly pointing to a large bird
that was flying by, high up in the air, about a quarter of a mile
off--"do you see that? Do you know what that is? That is a wild goose, a
gray lag, that has been driven in by bad weather; _now_ can you say we
have no waves, and winds, and sea in the south?"

Miss Violet was not daunted.

"Perhaps it is a goose," she said coolly. "I never saw but one flying---
you remember you shot it. What farm-yard has this one left?"

"Oh, for shame, Violet," Mrs. Warrener called out, "to rake up old
stories!"

She was punished for it. The insulted sportsman was casting about for
the cruelest retort he could think of, when, as it happened, Miss Violet
bethought her of looking round the corner of the boiler to see whether
they were getting near Ryde; and at the same moment it also happened
that a heavy wave, striking the bows of the steamer, sent a heap of
water whirling down between the paddle-box and the funnel, which caught
the young lady on the face with a crack like a whip. As to the shout of
laughter which then greeted her, that small party of folks had heard
nothing like it for many a day. There was salt water dripping from her
hair; salt water in her eyes; salt water running down her tingling and
laughing cheeks; and she richly deserved to be asked, as she was
immediately asked, whether the Solent was compounded of water and marl
or water and chalk, and which brand she preferred.

Was it the balmy southern air that tempered the vehemence of these
wanderers as they made their way across the island, and getting into a
carriage at Ventnor, proceeded to drive along the Undercliff? There was
a great quiet prevailing along these southern shores. They drove by
underneath the tall and crumbling precipices, with wood pigeons
suddenly shooting out from the clefts, and jackdaws wheeling about far
up in the blue. They passed by sheltered woods, bestarred with anemones
and primroses, and showing here and there the purple of the as yet
half-opened hyacinth; they passed by lush meadows, all ablaze with the
golden yellow of the celandine and the purple of the ground ivy; they
passed by the broken, picturesque banks where the tender blue of the
speedwell was visible from time to time, with the white glimmer of the
starwort. And then all this time they had on their left a gleaming and
wind-driven sea, full of motion, and light, and color, and showing the
hurrying shadows of the flying clouds.

At last far away, secluded and quiet, they came to a quaint little inn,
placed high over the sea, and surrounded by sheltering woods and hedges.
The sun lay warm on the smooth green lawn in front, where the daisies
grew. There were dark shadows--almost black shadows--along the
encircling hedge and under the cedars; but these only showed the more
brilliantly the silver lighting of the restless, whirling, wind-swept
sea beyond. It was a picturesque little house, with its long veranda
half-smothered in ivy and rose bushes now in bud; with its tangled
garden about, green with young hawthorn and sweetened by the perfume of
the lilacs; with its patches of uncut grass, where the yellow cowslips
drooped. There was an air of dreamy repose about the place; even that
whirling and silvery gray sea produced no sound; here the winds were
stilled, and the black shadows of the trees on that smooth green lawn
only moved with the imperceptible moving of the sun.

Violet went up stairs and into her room alone; she threw open the small
casements, and stood there looking out with a somewhat vague and distant
look. There was no mischief now in those dark and tender eyes; there was
rather an anxious and wistful questioning. And her heart seemed to go
out from her to implore these gentle winds, and the soft colors of the
sea, and the dreamy stillness of the woods, that now they should, if
ever that was possible to them, bring all their sweet and curative
influences to bear on him who had come among them. Now, if ever! Surely
the favorable skies would heed, and the secret healing of the woods
would hear, and the bountiful life-giving sea winds would bestir to her
prayer! Surely it was not too late!




CHAPTER XLVI.

HOPE'S WINGS.


The long journey had taxed his returning strength to the utmost, and for
the remainder of that day he looked worn and fatigued; but on the next
morning he was in the best of spirits, and nothing would do but that
they should at once set out on their explorations.

"Why not rest here?" said Violet. They were sitting in the shade of
their morning room, the French windows wide open, the pillars and roof
of the veranda outside framing in a picture of glowing sunlight and
green vegetation, with glimpses of the silvery, white sea beyond. "Why
not rest here?" she said; "what is the use of driving about to see bare
downs, and little holes in the mud that they call chasms, and waterfalls
that are turned on from the kitchen of the hotel above? That is what
they consider scenery in the Isle of Wight; and then, before you can see
it, you must buy a glass brooch or a china doll."

The fact is, he did not himself particularly care about these
excursions, but he was afraid of the place becoming tiresome and
monotonous to one whom he would insist on regarding as a visitor. She on
the other hand affected a profound contempt for the sufficiently
pleasant places about the Isle of Wight for the very purpose of inducing
him to rest in the still seclusion of this retreat they had chosen. But
here was the carriage at the door.

"Violet," said Amy Warrener, as they were leisurely driving along the
quiet ways, under the crumbling gray cliffs, where the jackdaws were
flying, "where shall we go for a climb? Don't you think we might come
upon another Mount Glorioso?"

"No," said the girl rather absently; "I don't think we shall see another
Mount Glorioso soon again."

"Not this autumn?" cried Mr. Drummond cheerfully; "not this summer?--for
why should we wait for the autumn! Violet, I have the most serious
projects with regard to the whole of us. It is high time that I set
about recognizing the ends of existence; that is to say, before I die I
must have a house in Bayswater and two thousand a year. All nice novels
end that way. Now, in order that we shall all reach this earthly
paradise, what is to be done? I have two projects. A publisher--the
first wise man of his race--I will write an epitaph for him quite
different from my universal epitaph--this shrewd and crafty person,
determined to rescue at least one mute, inglorious Milton from neglect,
has written to me. There! He has read my article on 'The Astronomical
Theory with regard to the Early Religions'; he has perceived the
profound wisdom, the research, the illuminating genius of that work--by
the way, I don't think I ever fully explained to you my notions on that
subject?"

"Oh, no, please don't," said Violet meekly. "What does the publisher
say?"

"Do you see the mean, practical, commercial spirit of these women?" he
said, apparently addressing himself. "It is only the money they think
of. They don't want to be instructed!"

"I know the article well enough," said Violet blushing hotly. "I read
it--I--I saw it advertised, and bought the review, when I hadn't much
money to spend on such things."

"Did you, Violet?" said he, forgetting for a moment his nonsense. Then
he continued: "The publisher thinks that with some padding of a general
and attractive nature, the subject might be made into a book. Why,
therefore, should not our fortune be made at once, and the gates of
Bayswater thrown open to the Peri? I do believe I could make an
interesting book. I will throw in a lot of Irish anecdotes. I wonder if
I could have it illustrated with pictures of 'Charles I. in Prison,' the
'Dying Infant,' 'The Sailor's Adieu,' and some such popular things!"

"I think," said Violet humbly, "we might go on to the other project."

"Ah," said he thoughtfully, "that requires time and silence first. I
must have the inspiration of the mountains before I can resolve it. Do
you know what it is?"

"Not yet."

"It is the utilizing of a great natural force. That is what all science
is trying to do now; and here is one of the mightiest forces in nature
of which nothing is made, unless it be that a few barges get floated up
and down our rivers. Do you see? The great mass of tidal force,
absolutely irresistible in its strength, punctual as the clock itself,
always to be calculated on--why should this great natural engine remain
unused?"

"But then, uncle," said a certain young lady, "if you made the tide
drive machinery at one time of the day, you would have to turn the house
round to let it drive it again as it was going back."

"Child, child!" said the inventor peevishly, "why do you tack on these
petty details to my grand conception? It is the idea I want to sell;
other people can use it. Now, will the government grant me a patent?"

"Certainly," said Violet.

"What royalty on all work executed by utilizing the tidal currents?"

"A million per cent."

"How much will that bring in?"

"Three millions a minute!"

"Ah," said he, sinking back with a sigh, "we have then reached the goal
at last. Bayswater, we approach you. Shall the brougham be bottle-green
or coffee-?"

"A brougham!" cried Violet; "no--a barge of white and gold, with crimson
satin sails, and oars of bronze, towed by a company of snow-white
swans----"

"Or mergansers"----

"And floating through the canals of claret which we shall set flowing in
the streets. Then the Lord Mayor and the corporation will come to meet
you, and you will get the freedom of the city presented in a gold
snuff-box. As for Buckingham Palace--well, a baronetcy would be a nice
thing."

"A baronetcy! Three millions a year and only a baronet! By the monuments
of Westminster Abbey, I will become a duke and an archbishop rolled into
one, and have the right of sending fifteen people a day to be beheaded
at the tower."

"Oh, not that, uncle!"

"And why not?"

"Because there wouldn't be any publishers at the end of the year."

"And here we are at Black Gang Chine!"

Violet would not go down. She positively refused to go down. She called
the place Black Gang Sham, and hoped they were pouring enough water down
the kitchen pipe of the hotel to make a foaming cataract. But she begged
Mrs. Warrener and Amy, who had not seen the place, to go down, while she
remained in the carriage with Mr. Drummond. So these two disappeared
into the bazaar.

"You are not really going to Scotland, are you?" she said simply, her
head cast down.

"I have been thinking of it," he answered. "Why not?"

"The air here is very sweet and soft," she said in a hesitating way. "Of
course, I know, the climate on the west coast of Scotland is very mild,
and you would get the mountain air as well as the sea air. But don't you
think the storms, the gales that blow in the spring----"

"Oh," said he cheerfully, "I shall never be pulled together till I get
up to the north--I know that. I may have to remain here till I get
stronger, but by-and-by I hope we shall all go up to Scotland together,
and that long before the shooting begins."

"I--I am afraid," said she, "that I shall not be of the party."

"You? Not you?" he cried. "You are not going to leave us, Violet, just
after we have found you?"

He took her hand, but she still averted her eyes.

"I half promised," she said, "to spend some time with Mr. and Mrs.
Dowse. They are very lonely. They think they have a claim on me, and
they have been very kind."

"You are not going to Mr. and Mrs. Dowse, Violet," said he promptly. "I
pity the poor people, but we have a prior claim on you, and we mean to
insist on it. What, just after all this grief of separation, you would
go away from us again? No, no! I tell you, Violet, we shall never find
you your real self until you have been braced up by the sea breezes. I
mean the real sea breezes. You want a scamper among the heather--I can
see that; for I have been watching you of late, and you are not up to
the right mark. The sooner we all go the better. Do you understand
that?"

He had been talking lightly and cheerfully, not caring who overheard.
She, on the other hand, was anxious and embarrassed, not daring to utter
what was on her mind. At last she said:

"Will you get down for a minute or two, and walk along the road? It is
very sheltered here, and the sun is warm."

He did so, and she took his arm, and they walked away apart in the
sunlight and silence. When they had gone some distance she stopped and
said in a low and earnest voice:

"Don't you know why I cannot go to the Highlands with you? It would kill
me. How could I go back to all those places?"

"I understand that well enough, Violet," said he gently, "but don't you
think you ought to go for the very purpose of conquering that feeling?
There is nothing in that part of the country to inspire you with dread.
You would see it all again in its accustomed light."

She shook her head.

"Very well, then," said he, for he was determined not to let these
gloomy impressions of the girl overcome him. "If not there, somewhere
else. We are not tied to Castle Bandbox. There is plenty of space about
the West Highlands or about the Central Highlands, for the matter of
that. Shall we try to get some lodging in an inn or farmhouse about the
Moor of Rannoch? Or will you try the islands--Jura, or Islay, or Mull?"

She did not answer. She seemed to be in a dream.

"Shall I tell you, Violet," he continued, gravely and gently, "why I
want you to come with us? I am anxious that you and I should be together
as long--as long as that is possible. One never knows what may happen,
and lately--well, we need not speak of it; but I don't wish us to be
parted, Violet."

She burst into a violent fit of crying and sobbing. She had been
struggling bravely to repress this gathering emotion; but his direct
reference to the very thought that was overshadowing her mind was too
much for her. And along with this wild grief came as keen remorse, for
was this the conduct required of an attendant upon an invalid?

"You must forgive me," she sobbed. "I don't know what it is--I have been
very nervous of late--and--and-----"

"There is nothing to cry about, Violet," said he gently. "What is to be,
is to be. You have not lost your old courage! Only let us be together
while we can."

"Oh, my love, my love!" she suddenly cried, taking his hand in both of
hers, and looking up to him with her piteous, tear-dimmed eyes; "we will
always be together! What is it that you say?--what is it that you mean?
Not that you are going away without me? I have courage for anything but
that. It does not matter what comes, only that I must go with you--we
two together!"

"Hush, hush, Violet," said he soothingly, for he saw that the girl was
really beside herself with grief and apprehension. "Come, this is not
like the brave Violet of old. I thought there was nothing in all the
world you were afraid to face. Look up, now."

She released his hand, and a strange expression came over her face. That
wild outburst had been an involuntary confession; now a great fear and
shame filled her heart that she should have been betrayed into it, and
in a despairing, pathetic fashion she tried to explain away her words.

"We shall be together, shall we not?" she said, with an affected
cheerfulness, though she was still crying gently. "It does not matter
what part of the Highlands you go to--I will go with you. I must write
and explain to Mrs. Dowse. It would be a pity that we should separate so
soon, after that long time, would it not? And then the brisk air of the
hills, and of the yachting, will be better for you than the hot summer
here, won't it? And I am sure you will get very well there; that is just
the place for you to get strong; and when the time for the shooting
comes, we shall all go out, as we used to do, to see you missing every
bird that gets up."

She tried to smile, but did not succeed very well.

"And really it does not matter to me so very much what part we go to,
for, as you say, one ought to conquer these feelings, and if you prefer
Castle Bandbox, I will go there too--that is, I shall be very proud to
go if I am not in the way. And you know I am the only one who can make
cartridges for you."

"I don't think I shall trouble the cartridges very much," said he, glad
to think she was becoming more cheerful.

"Indeed," she continued, "I don't know what would have become of your
gun if I had not looked after it, for you only half cleaned it, and old
Peter would not touch it, and the way the sea air rusted the barrels was
quite remarkable. Will you have No. 3 or No. 4 shot this year for the
sea birds?"

"Well," he answered gravely, "you see we shall have no yacht this year,
and probably no chances of wild duck at all; and it would scarcely be
worth while to make cartridges merely to fire away at these harmless and
useless sea pyots and things of that sort."

"Oh, but my papa could easily get us a yacht," she said promptly; "he
would be delighted--I know he would be delighted. And I have been told
you can get a small yacht for about L40 a month, crew and everything
included, and what is that? Indeed, I think it is quite necessary you
should have a yacht."

"Forty pounds," said he. "I think we could manage that. But then we
should deduct something from the wages of the crew on the strength of
our taking our own cook with us. Do you remember that cook? She had a
wonderful trick of making apricot jam puddings; how the dickens she
managed to get so much jam crammed in I never could make out. She was
just about as good at that as at making cartridges. Did you ever hear of
that cook?"

By this time they had walked gently back to the carriage, and now Mrs.
Warrener and her daughter made their appearance. The elder woman noticed
something strange about Violet's expression, but she did not speak of
it, for surely the girl was happy enough? She was, indeed, quite merry.
She told Mrs. Warrener she was ready to go with them to the Highlands
whenever they chose. She proposed that this time they should go up the
Caledonian canal, and go down by Loch Maree, and then go out and visit
the western isles. She said the sooner they went the better; they would
get all the beautiful summer of the north; it was only the autumn
tourists who complained of the rain of the Highlands.

"But we had little rain last autumn," said Mrs. Warrener.

"Oh, very little indeed," said Violet, quite brightly; "we had charming
weather all through. I never enjoyed myself anywhere so much. I think
the sooner your brother gets up to the Highlands, the better it will do
him a world of good."




CHAPTER XLVII.

DU SCHMERZENSREICHE!


So the long, silent, sunlit days passed, and it seemed to the three
patient watchers that the object of their care was slowly recovering
health and strength. But if they were all willing and eager to wait on
him, it was Violet who was his constant companion and friend, his
devoted attendant, his humble scholar. Sometimes when Mrs. Warrener's
heart grew sore within her to think of the wrong that had been wrought
in the past, the tender little woman tried to solace herself somewhat by
regarding these two as they now sat together--he the whimsical,
affectionate master, she the meek pupil and disciple, forgetting all the
proud dignity of her maidenhood, her fire, and audacity, and
independence, in the humility and self-surrender of her love. Surely,
she thought, this time was making up for much of the past. And if all
went well now, what had they to look forward to but a still closer
companionship in which the proud, and loyal, and fearless girl would
become the tender and obedient wife? There was no jealousy in the nature
of this woman. She would have laughed with joy if she could have heard
their marriage bells.

And Violet, too, when the sun lay warm on the daisies and cowslips, when
the sweet winds blew the scent of the lilacs about, and when her master
and teacher grew strong enough to walk with her along the quiet woodland
ways--how could she fail to pick up some measure of cheerfulness and
hope? It almost seemed as if she had dropped into a new world; and it
was a beautiful world, full of tenderness, and laughter, and sunshine.
Henceforth there was to be no more George Miller to bother her; he had
gone clean out of existence as far as she was concerned; there was no
more skirmishing with Lady North; even the poor Dowses, with their
piteous loneliness and solemn house, were almost forgotten. Here was her
whole world. And when she noticed the increasing distances that he
walked, and the brighter look of his face, and the growing courage and
carelessness of his habits--then indeed the world became a beautiful
world to her, and she was almost inclined to fall in love with those
whirling and gleaming southern seas.

It was in the black night-time, when all the household but herself were
asleep, that she paid the penalty of these transient joys. Haunted by
the one terrible fear, she could gain no rest; it was in vain that she
tried to reason with herself; her imagination was like some hideous
fiend continually whispering to her ear. Then she had no friend with
whom to share those terrible doubts; she dared not mention them to any
human soul. Why should she disturb the gentle confidence of his sister
and her daughter? She could not make them miserable merely to lift from
her own mind a portion of its anxiety. She could only lie awake, night
after night, and rack her brain with a thousand gloomy forebodings. She
recalled certain phrases he had used in moments of pathetic confidence.
She recalled the quick look of pain with which he sometimes paused in
the middle of his speech, the almost involuntary raising the hand to the
region of the heart, the passing pallor of the face. Had they seen none
of those things? Had they no wild, despairing thoughts about him? Was it
possible they could go peacefully to sleep with this dread thing hanging
over them, with a chance of awaking to a day of bitter anguish and
wild, heart-broken farewell? This cruel anxiety, kept all to herself,
was killing the girl. She grew restless and feverish; sometimes she sat
up half the night at the window listening to the moaning of the dark sea
outside; she became languid during the day, pale, and distraite. But it
was not to last long.

One evening these two were together in the small parlor, he lying down,
she sitting near him with a book in her hand. The French windows were
open; they could hear Mrs. Warrener and her daughter talking in the
garden. And, strangely enough, the sick man's thoughts were once more
turned to the far Highlands, and to their life among the hills, and the
pleasant merry-making on board the Sea Pyot.

"The air of this place does not agree with you at all, Violet," he was
saying. "You are not looking nearly so well as you did when we came
down. You are the only one who has not benefited by the change. Now that
won't do; we cannot have a succession of invalids--a Greek frieze of
patients, all carrying phials of medicine. We must get off to the
Highlands at once. What do you say--a fortnight hence?"

She knelt down beside him, and took his hand, and said in a low voice--

"Do not be angry with me--it is very unreasonable, I know--but I have a
strange dread of the Highlands. I have dreamed so often lately of being
up there--and of being swept away on a dark sea--in the middle of the
night."

She shuddered. He put his hand gently on her head.

"There is no wonder you should dream of that," he said with a smile.
"That is only part of the story which you made us all believe. But we
have got a brighter finish for it now. You have not been overwhelmed in
that dark flood yet----"

He paused.

"Violet! My love!" he suddenly cried.

He let go her hand, and made a wild grasp at his left breast; his face
grew white with pain. What made her instinctively throw her arms round
him, with terror in her eyes?

"Violet! What is this? Kiss me!"

It was but one second after that that a piercing shriek rang through the
place. The girl had sprung up like a deer shot through the heart; her
eyes dilated, her face wild and pale. Mrs. Warrener came running in; but
paused, and almost retreated in fear from the awful spectacle before
her; for the girl still held the dead man's hand, and she was laughing
merrily. The dark sea she had dreaded had overtaken her at last.

       *       *       *       *       *

But one more scene--months afterward. It is the breakfast room in Lady
North's house in Euston Square; and Anatolia is sitting there alone. The
door opens, and a tall young girl, dressed in a white morning costume,
comes silently in; there is a strange and piteous look of trouble in her
dark eyes. Anatolia goes over to her, and takes her hand very tenderly,
and leads her to the easy-chair she had herself just quitted.

"There is not any letter yet?" she asks, having looked all round the
table with a sad and wearied air.

"No, dear, not yet," says Anatolia, who, unlovely though she may be, has
a sympathetic heart; and her lip trembles as she speaks. "You must be
patient, Violet."

"It is another morning gone, and there is no letter, and I cannot
understand it," says the girl, apparently to herself, and then she
begins to cry silently, while her half-sister goes to her, and puts her
arm around her neck, and tries to soothe her.

Lady North comes into the room. Some changes have happened within these
few months; it is "Mother" and "My child" now between the enemies of
yore. And as she bids Violet good morning, and gently kisses her, the
girl renews her complaint.

"Mother, why do they keep back his letter? I know he must have written
to me long ago; and I cannot go to him until I get the letter! and he
will wonder why I am not coming. Morning after morning I listen for the
postman--I can hear him in the street from house to house--and they all
get their letters, but I don't get this one that is worth all the world
to me. And I never neglected anything that he said; and I was always
very obedient to him; and he will wonder now that I don't go to him, and
perhaps he will think that I am among my other friends now and have
forgotten---- No, he will not think that. I have not forgotten."

"My child, you must not vex yourself," says Lady North with all the
tenderness of which she is capable--and Anatolia is bitterly crying all
the while. "It will be all right. And you must not look sad to-day; for
you know Mrs. Warrener and your friend Amy are coming to see you."

She does not seem to pay much heed.

"Shall we go for the flowers to-day?" she asks, with her dark wet eyes
raised for the first time.

"My darling, this is not the day we go for the flowers; that is
to-morrow."

"And what is the use of it?" she says, letting her head sink sadly
again. "Every time I go over to Nunhead I listen all by myself--and I
know he is not there at all. The flowers look pretty, because his name
is over them. But he is not there at all--he is far away--and he was to
send me a message--and every day I wait for it--and they keep the letter
back. Mother, are all my dresses ready?"

"Yes, Violet."

"You are quite sure!"

"They are all ready, Violet. Don't trouble about that."

"It is the white satin one he will like the best; and he will be pleased
that I am not in black like the others. Mother, Mrs. Warrener and Amy
surely cannot mean to come to the wedding in black."

"Surely not, Violet. But come, dear, to your breakfast."

She took her place quite calmly and humbly; but her mind was still
wandering toward that picture.

"I hope they will strew the church-yard with flowers as we pass through
it--not for me, but for him; for he will be pleased with that; and there
is more than all that is in the Prayer-book that I will promise to be to
him, when we two are kneeling together. You are quite sure everything is
ready?"

"Everything, my darling."

"And you think the message from him will come soon now?"

"I think it will come soon now, Violet," was the answer, given with
trembling lips.

                            THE END.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now to you--you whose names are written in these blurred pages, some
portion of whose lives I have tried to trace with a wandering and
uncertain pen--I stretch out a hand of farewell. Yet not quite of
farewell, perhaps: for amid all the shapes and phantoms of this world of
mystery, where the shadows we meet can tell us neither whence they came
nor whither they go, surely you have for me a no less substantial
existence that may have its chances in the time to come. To me you are
more real than most I know: what wonder then if I were to meet you on
the threshold of the great unknown, you all shining with a new light on
your face? Trembling, I stretch out my hands to you, for your silence is
awful, and there is sadness in your eyes; but the day may come when you
will speak, and I shall hear--and understand.




JULIET ON THE BALCONY.


   O lips that are so lonely
     For want of his caress;
   O heart that art too faithful
     To ever love him less;
   O eyes that find no sweetness
     For hunger of his face;
   O hands that long to feel him,
     Always, in every place!

   My spirit leans and listens,
     But only hears his name,
   And thought to thought leaps onward
     As flame leaps unto flame;
   And all kin to each other
     As any brood of flowers,
   Or these sweet winds of night, love,
     That fan the fainting hours!

   My spirit leans and listens,
     My heart stands up and cries,
   And only one sweet vision
     Comes ever to my eyes.
   So near and yet so far, love,
     So dear, yet out of reach,
   So like some distant star, love,
     Unnamed in human speech!

   My spirit leans and listens,
     My heart goes out to him,
   Through all the long night watches,
     Until the dawning dim;
   My spirit leans and listens,
     What if, across the night,
   His strong heart send a message
     To flood me with delight?

                                        HOWARD GLYNDON.




OUR RURAL DIVINITY.


I wonder that Wilson Flagg did not include the cow among his
"Picturesque Animals," for that is where she belongs. She has not the
classic beauty of the horse, but in picture-making qualities she is far
ahead of him. Her shaggy, loose-jointed body, her irregular, sketchy
outlines, like those of the landscape--the hollows and ridges, the
<DW72>s and prominences--her tossing horns, her bushy tail, her swinging
gait, her tranquil, ruminating habits--all tend to make her an object
upon which the artist eye loves to dwell. The artists are for ever
putting her into pictures too. In rural landscape scenes she is an
important feature. Behold her grazing in the pastures and on the hill
sides, or along banks of streams, or ruminating under wide-spreading
trees, or standing belly deep in the creek or pond, or lying upon the
smooth places in the quiet summer afternoon, the day's grazing done, and
waiting to be summoned home to be milked; and again in the twilight
lying upon the level summit of the hill, or where the sward is thickest
and softest; or in winter a herd of them filing along toward the spring
to drink, or being "foddered" from the stack in the field upon the new
snow--surely the cow is a picturesque animal, and all her goings and
comings are pleasant to behold.

I looked into Hamerton's clever book on the domestic animals, also
expecting to find my divinity duly celebrated, but he passes her by and
contemplates the bovine qualities only as they appear in the ox and the
bull.

Neither have the poets made much of the cow, but have rather dwelt upon
the steer, or the ox yoked to the plough. I recall this touch from
Emerson:

   The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
   Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm.

But the ear is charmed nevertheless, especially if it be not too near,
and the air be still and dense, or hollow, as the farmer says. And
again, if it be spring time and she task that powerful bellows of hers
to its utmost capacity, how round the sound is, and how far it goes over
the hills.

The cow has at least four tones or lows. First, there is her alarmed or
distressed low, when deprived of her calf, or separated from her
mates--her low of affection. Then there is her call of hunger, a
petition for food, sometimes full of impatience, or her answer to the
farmer's call, full of eagerness. Then there is that peculiar frenzied
bawl she utters on smelling blood, which causes every member of the herd
to lift its head and hasten to the spot--the native cry of the clan.
When she is gored or in great danger she bawls also, but that is
different. And lastly, there is the long, sonorous volley she lets off
on the hills or in the yard, or along the highway, and which seems to be
expressive of a kind of unrest and vague longing--the longing of the
imprisoned Io for her lost identity. She sends her voice forth so that
every god on Mount Olympus can hear her plaint. She makes this sound in
the morning, especially in the spring, as she goes forth to graze.

One of our rural poets, Myron Benton, whose verse often has the flavor
of sweet cream, has written some lines called "Rumination," in which the
cow is the principal figure, and with which I am permitted to adorn my
theme. The poet first gives his attention to a little brook that "breaks
its shallow gossip" at his feet and "drowns the oriole's voice":

   But moveth not that wise and ancient cow,
   Who chews her juicy cud so languid now
   Beneath her favorite elm, whose drooping bough
   Lulls all but inward vision, fast asleep:
   But still, her tireless tail a pendulum sweep
   Mysterious clockwork guides, and some hid pulley
   Her drowsy cud, each moment, raises duly.

   Of this great, wondrous world she has seen more
   Than you, my little brook, and cropped its store
   Of succulent grass on many a mead and lawn;
   And strayed to distant uplands in the dawn.
   And she has had some dark experience
   Of graceless man's ingratitude; and hence
   Her ways have not been ways of pleasantness,
   Nor all her paths of peace. But her distress
   And grief she has lived past; your giddy round
   Disturbs her not, for she is learned profound
   In deep brahminical philosophy.
   She chews the cud of sweetest revery
   Above your worldly prattle, brooklet merry,
   Oblivious of all things sublunary.

The cow figures in Grecian mythology, and in the Oriental literature is
treated as a sacred animal. "The clouds are cows and the rain milk." I
remember what Herodotus says of the Egyptians' worship of heifers and
steers; and in the traditions of the Celtic nations the cow is regarded
as a divinity. In Norse mythology the milk of the cow Andhumbla afforded
nourishment to the Frost giants, and it was she that licked into being
and into shape a god, the father of Odin. If anything could lick a god
into shape, certainly the cow could do it. You may see her perform this
office for young Taurus any spring. She licks him out of the fogs and
bewilderments and uncertainties in which he finds himself on first
landing upon these shores, and up on to his feet in an incredibly short
time. Indeed, that potent tongue of hers can almost make the dead alive
any day, and the creative lick of the old Scandinavian mother cow is
only a large-lettered rendering of the commonest facts.

The horse belongs to the fiery god Mars. He favors war, and is one of
its oldest, most available, and most formidable engines. The steed is
clothed with thunder, and smells the battle from afar; but the cattle
upon a thousand hills denote that peace and plenty bear sway in the
land. The neighing of the horse is a call to battle; but the lowing of
old Brockleface in the valley brings the golden age again. The savage
tribes are never without the horse; the Scythians are all mounted; but
the cow would tame and humanize them. When the Indians will cultivate
the cow, I shall think their civilization fairly begun. Recently, when
the horses were sick with the epizooetic, and the oxen came to the city
and helped to do their work, what an Arcadian air again filled the
streets. But the dear old oxen--how awkward and distressed they looked!
Juno wept in the face of every one of them. The horse is a true citizen,
and is entirely at home in the paved streets; but the ox--what a
complete embodiment of all rustic and rural things! Slow, deliberate,
thick-skinned, powerful, hulky, ruminating, fragrant-breathed, when he
came to town the spirit and suggestion of all Georgics and Bucolics came
with him. Oh, citizen, was it only a plodding, unsightly brute that went
by? Was there no chord in your bosom, long silent, that sweetly vibrated
at the sight of that patient, Herculean couple? Did you smell no hay or
cropped herbage, see no summer pastures with circles of cool shade, hear
no voice of herds among the hills? They were very likely the only horses
your grandfather ever had. Not much trouble to harness and unharness
them. Not much vanity on the road in those days. They did all the work
on the early pioneer farm. They were the gods whose rude strength first
broke the soil. They could live where the moose and the deer could. If
there was no clover or timothy to be had, then the twigs of the basswood
and birch would do. Before there were yet fields given up to grass, they
found ample pasturage in the woods. Their wide-spreading horns gleamed
in the duskiness, and their paths and the paths of the cows became the
future roads and highways, or even the streets of great cities.

All the descendants of Odin show a bovine trace, and cherish and
cultivate the cow. What were those old Vikings but thick-hided bulls
that delighted in nothing so much as goring each other? And has not the
charge of beefiness been brought much nearer home to us than that? But
about all the northern races there is something that is kindred to
cattle in the best sense--something in their art and literature that is
essentially pastoral, sweet-breathed, continent, dispassionate,
ruminating, wide-eyed, soft-voiced--a charm of kine, the virtue of
brutes.

The cow belongs more especially to the northern peoples, to the region
of the good, green grass. She is the true _grazing_ animal. That broad,
smooth, always dewy nose of hers is just the suggestion of green sward.
She caresses the grass; she sweeps off the ends of the leaves; she reaps
it with the soft sickle of her tongue. She crops close, but she does not
bruise or devour the turf like the horse. She is the sward's best
friend, and will make it thick and smooth as a carpet.

     The turfy mountains where live the nibbling sheep

are not for her. Her muzzle is too blunt; then she does not _bite_ as do
the sheep; she has not upper teeth; she _crops_. But on the lower
<DW72>s, and margins, and rich bottoms, she is at home. Where the daisy
and the buttercup and clover bloom, and where corn will grow, is her
proper domain. The agriculture of no country can long thrive without
her. Not only a large part of the real, but much of the potential wealth
of the land is wrapped up in her.

What a variety of individualities a herd of cows presents when you have
come to know them all, not only in form and color, but in manners and
disposition. Some are timid and awkward and the butt of the whole herd.
Some remind you of deer. Some have an expression in the face like
certain persons you have known. A petted and well-fed cow has a
benevolent and gracious look; an ill-used and poorly-fed one a pitiful
and forlorn look. Some cows have a masculine or ox expression; others
are extremely feminine. The latter are the ones for milk. Some cows will
kick like a horse; some jump fences like deer. Every herd has its
ringleader, its unruly spirit--one that plans all the mischief and leads
the rest through the fences into the grain or into the orchard. This one
is usually quite different from the master spirit, the "boss of the
yard." The latter is generally the most peaceful and law-abiding cow in
the lot, and the least bullying and quarrelsome. But she is not to be
trifled with; her will is law; the whole herd give way before her, those
that have crossed horns with her, and those that have not, but yielded
their allegiance without crossing. I remember such a one among my
father's milkers when I was a boy--a slender-horned, deep-shouldered,
large-uddered, dewlapped old cow that we always put first in the long
stable so she could not have a cow on each side of her to forage upon;
for the master is yielded to no less in the stancheons than in the yard.
She always had the first place anywhere. She had her choice of standing
room in the milking yard, and when she wanted to lie down there or in
the fields the best and softest spot was hers. When the herd were
foddered from the stack or barn, or fed with pumpkins in the fall, she
was always first served. Her demeanor was quiet but impressive. She
never bullied or gored her mates, but literally ruled them with the
breath of her nostrils. If any newcomer or ambitious younger cow,
however, chafed under her supremacy, she was ever ready to make good her
claims. And with what spirit she would fight when openly challenged! She
was a whirlwind of pluck and valor; and not after one defeat or two
defeats would she yield the championship. The boss cow, when overcome,
seems to brood over her disgrace, and day after day will meet her rival
in fierce combat.

A friend of mine, a pastoral philosopher, whom I have consulted in
regard to the master cow, thinks it is seldom the case that one rules
all the herd, if it number many, but that there is often one that will
rule nearly all. "Curiously enough," he says, "a case like this will
often occur: No. 1 will whip No. 2; No. 2 whips No. 3; and No. 3 whips
No. 1; so around in a circle. This is not a mistake; it is often the
case. I remember," he continued, "we once had feeding out of a large bin
in the centre of the yard six oxen who mastered right through in
succession from No. 1 to No. 6; _but No. 6 paid off the score by
whipping No. 1_. I often watched them when they were all trying to feed
out of the box, and of course trying, dog-in-the-manger fashion, each to
prevent any other he could. They would often get in the order to do it
very systematically, since they could keep rotating about the box till
the chain happened to get broken somewhere, when there would be
confusion. Their mastership, you know, like that between nations, is
constantly changing. But there are always Napoleons who hold their own
through many vicissitudes; but the ordinary cow is continually liable to
lose her foothold. Some cow she has always despised, and has often sent
tossing across the yard at her horns' ends, some pleasant morning will
return the compliment and pay off old scores."

But my own observation has been that in herds in which there have been
no important changes for several years, the question of might gets
pretty well settled, and some one cow becomes the acknowledged ruler.

The bully of the yard is never the master, but usually a second or
third-rate pusher that never loses an opportunity to hook those beneath
her, or to gore the masters if she can get them in a tight place. If
such a one can get loose in the stable, she is quite certain to do
mischief. She delights to pause in the open bars and turn and keep those
at bay behind her till she sees a pair of threatening horns pressing
toward her, when she quickly passes on. As one cow masters all, so there
is one cow that is mastered by all. These are the two extremes of the
herd, the head and the tail. Between them are all grades of authority,
with none so poor but hath some poorer to do her reverence.

The cow has evidently come down to us from a wild or semi-wild state;
perhaps is a descendant of those wild, shaggy cattle of which a small
band still exists in the forests of Scotland. Cuvier seems to have been
of this opinion. One of the ways in which her wild instincts still crop
out is the disposition she shows in spring to hide her calf--a common
practice among the wild herds. Her wild nature would be likely to come
to the surface at this crisis if ever; and I have known cows that
practised great secrecy in dropping their calves. As their time
approached they grew restless, a wild and excited look was upon them,
and if left free, they generally set out for the woods or for some other
secluded spot. After the calf is several hours old, and has got upon its
feet and had its first meal, the dam by some sign commands it to lie
down and remain quiet while she goes forth to feed. If the calf is
approached at such time, it plays "'possum," assumes to be dead or
asleep, till on finding this ruse does not succeed, it mounts to its
feet, bleats loudly and fiercely, and charges desperately upon the
intruder. But it recovers from this wild scare in a little while, and
never shows signs of it again.

The habit of the cow, also, in eating the placenta, looks to me like a
vestige of her former wild instincts--the instinct to remove everything
that would give the wild beasts a clue or a scent, and so attract them
to her helpless young.

How wise and sagacious the cows become that run upon the street, or pick
their living along the highway. The mystery of gates and bars is at last
solved to them. They ponder over them by night, they lurk about them by
day, till they acquire a new sense--till they become _en rapport_ with
them and know when they are open and unguarded. The garden gate, if it
open into the highway at any point, is never out of the mind of these
roadsters, or out of their calculations. They calculate upon the chances
of its being left open a certain number of times in the season; and if
it be but once and only for five minutes, your cabbage and sweet corn
suffer. What villager, or countryman either, has not been awakened at
night by the squeaking and crunching of those piratical jaws under the
window or in the direction of the vegetable patch? I have had the cows,
after they had eaten up my garden, break into the stable where my own
milcher was tied, and gore her and devour her meal. Yes, life presents
but one absorbing problem to the street cow, and that is how to get into
your garden. She catches glimpses of it over the fence or through the
pickets, and her imagination or epigastrium is inflamed. When the spot
is surrounded by a high board fence, I think I have seen her peeping at
the cabbages through a knot-hole. At last she learns to open the gate.
It is a great triumph of bovine wit. She does it with her horn or her
nose, or may be with her ever ready tongue. I doubt if she has ever yet
penetrated the mystery of the newer patent fastenings; but the
old-fashioned thumb-latch she can see through, give her time enough.

A large, lank, muley or polled cow used to annoy me in this way when I
was a dweller in a certain pastoral city. I more than half suspected she
was turned in by some one; so one day I watched. Presently I heard the
gate-latch rattle; the gate swung open, and in walked the old buffalo.
On seeing me she turned and ran like a horse. I then fastened the gate
on the inside and watched again. After long waiting the old cow came
quickly round the corner and approached the gate. She lifted the latch
with her nose. Then, as the gate did not move, she lifted it again and
again. Then she gently nudged it. Then, the obtuse gate not taking the
hint, she butted it gently, then harder and still harder, till it
rattled again. At this juncture I emerged from my hiding place, when
the old villain scampered off with great precipitation. She knew she was
trespassing, and she had learned that there were usually some swift
penalties attached to this pastime.

I have owned but three cows and loved but one. That was the first one,
Chloe, a bright red, curly-pated, golden-skinned Devonshire cow, that an
ocean steamer landed for me upon the banks of the Potomac one bright May
day many clover summers ago. She came from the north, from the pastoral
regions of the Catskills, to graze upon the broad commons of the
national capital. I was then the fortunate and happy lessee of an old
place with an acre of ground attached, almost within the shadow of the
dome of the capitol. Behind a high but aged and decrepit board fence I
indulged my rural and unclerical tastes. I could look up from my homely
tasks and cast a potato almost in the midst of that cataract of marble
steps that flows out of the north wing of the patriotic pile. Ah, when
that creaking and sagging back gate closed behind me in the evening, I
was happy; and when it opened for my egress thence in the morning, I was
not happy. Inside that gate was a miniature farm redolent of homely,
primitive life, a tumble-down house and stables and implements of
agriculture and horticulture, broods of chickens, and growing pumpkins,
and a thousand antidotes to the weariness of an artificial life. Outside
of it were the marble and iron palaces, the paved and blistering
streets, and the high, vacant, mahogany desk of a government clerk. In
that ancient enclosure I took an earth bath twice a day. I planted
myself as deep in the soil as I could to restore the normal tone and
freshness of my system, impaired by the above mentioned government
mahogany. I have found there is nothing like the earth to draw the
various social distempers out of one. The blue devils take flight at
once if they see you mean to bury them and make compost of them.
Emerson intimates that the scholar had better not try to have two
gardens; but I could never spend an hour hoeing up dock and red-root and
twitch grass without in some way getting rid of many weeds and fungus,
unwholesome growths that a petty, in-doors life was for ever fostering
in my own moral and intellectual nature.

But the finishing touch was not given till Chloe came. She was the jewel
for which this homely setting waited. My agriculture had some object
then. The old gate never opened with such alacrity as when she paused
before it. How we waited for her coming! Should I send Drewer, the
 patriarch, for her? No; the master of the house himself should
receive Juno at the capital.

"One cask for you," said the clerk, referring to the steamer bill of
lading.

"Then I hope it's a cask of milk," I said. "I expected a cow."

"One cask it says here."

"Well, let's see it; I'll warrant it has horns and is tied by a rope";
which proved to be the case, for there stood the only object that bore
my name, chewing its cud, on the forward deck. How she liked the voyage
I could not find out; but she seemed to relish so much the feeling of
solid ground beneath her feet once more that she led me a lively step
all the way home. She cut capers in front of the White House, and tried
twice to wind me up in the rope as we passed the Treasury. She kicked up
her heels on the broad avenue and became very coltish as she came under
the walls of the capitol. But that night the long-vacant stall in the
old stable was filled, and the next morning the coffee had met with a
change of heart. I had to go out twice with the lantern and survey my
treasure before I went to bed. Did she not come from the delectable
mountains, and did I not have a sort of filial regard for her as toward
my foster mother?

This was during the Arcadian age at the capital, before the easy-going
southern ways had gone out and the prim new northern ways had come in,
and when the domestic animals were treated with distinguished
consideration and granted the freedom of the city. There was a charm of
cattle in the streets and upon the commons: goats cropped your rose
bushes through the pickets, and nooned upon your front porch, and pigs
dreamed Arcadian dreams under your garden fence or languidly frescoed it
with pigments from the nearest pool. It was a time of peace; it was the
poor man's golden age. Your cow, or your goat, or your pig led a
vagrant, wandering life, and picked up a subsistence wherever they
could, like the bees, which was almost everywhere. Your cow went forth
in the morning and came home fraught with milk at night, and you never
troubled yourself where she went or how far she roamed.

Chloe took very naturally to this kind of life. At first I had to go
with her a few times and pilot her to the nearest commons, and then left
her to her own wit, which never failed her. What adventures she had,
what acquaintances she made, how far she wandered, I never knew. I never
came across her in my walks or rambles. Indeed, on several occasions I
thought I would look her up and see her feeding in the national
pastures, but I never could find her. There were plenty of cows, but
they were all strangers. But punctually, between four and five o'clock
in the afternoon, her white horns would be seen tossing above the gate
and her impatient low be heard. Sometimes, when I turned her forth in
the morning, she would pause and apparently consider which way she would
go. Should she go toward Kendall Green to-day, or follow the Tiber, or
over by the Big Spring, or out around Lincoln Hospital? She seldom
reached a conclusion till she had stretched forth her neck and blown a
blast on her trumpet that awoke the echoes in the very lantern on the
dome of the capitol. Then, after one or two licks, she would disappear
around the corner. Later in the season, when the grass was parched or
poor on the commons, and the corn and cabbage tempting in the garden,
Chloe was loth to depart in the morning, and her deliberations were
longer than ever, and very often I had to aid her in coming to a
decision.

For two summers she was a well-spring of pleasure and profit in my farm
of one acre, when in an evil moment I resolved to part with her and try
another. In an evil moment I say, for from that time my luck in cattle
left me. Juno never forgave me the execution of that rash and cruel
resolve.

The day is indellibly stamped on my memory when I exposed my Chloe for
sale in the public market place. It was in November, a bright, dreamy,
Indian summer day. A sadness oppressed me, not unmixed with guilt and
remorse. An old Irish woman came to the market also with her pets to
sell, a sow and five pigs, and took up a position next me. We condoled
with each other; we bewailed the fate of our darlings together; we
berated in chorus the white-aproned but bloodstained fraternity who
prowled about us. When she went away for a moment I minded the pigs, and
when I strolled about she minded my cow. How shy the innocent beast was
of those carnal market men. How she would shrink away from them. When
they put out a hand to feel her condition she would "scrooch" down her
back, or bend this way or that, as if the hand were a branding iron. So
long as I stood by her head she felt safe--deluded creature--and chewed
the cud of sweet content; but the moment I left her side she seemed
filled with apprehension, and followed me with her eyes, lowing softly
and entreatingly till I returned.

At last the money was counted out for her, and her rope surrendered to
the hand of another. How that last look of alarm and incredulity, which
I caught as I turned for a parting glance, went to my heart!

Her stall was soon filled, or partly filled, and this time with a
native--a specimen of what may be called the cornstalk breed of
Virginia: a slender, furtive, long-geared heifer just verging on
cowhood, that in spite of my best efforts would wear a pinched and
hungry look. She evidently inherited a humped back. It was a family
trait, and evidence of the purity of her blood. For the native blooded
cow of Virginia, from shivering over half rations of corn stalks, in the
open air, during those bleak and windy winters, and roaming over those
parched fields in summer, has come to have some marked features. For one
thing, her pedal extremities seemed lengthened; for another, her udder
does not impede her travelling; for a third, her backbone inclines
strongly to the curve; then, she despiseth hay. This last is a sure
test. Offer a thorough-bred Virginia cow hay, and she will laugh in your
face; but rattle the husks or shucks, and she knows you to be her
friend.

The new comer even declined corn meal at first. She eyed it furtively,
then sniffed it suspiciously, but finally discovered that it bore some
relation to her native "shucks," when she fell to eagerly.

I cherish the memory of this cow, however, as the most affectionate
brute I ever knew. Being deprived of her calf, she transferred her
affections to her master, and would fain have made a calf of him, lowing
in the most piteous and inconsolable manner when he was out of her
sight, hardly forgetting her grief long enough to eat her meal, and
entirely neglecting her beloved husks. Often in the middle of the night
she would set up that sonorous lamentation and continue it till sleep
was chased from every eye in the household. This generally had the
effect of bringing the object of her affection before her, but in a mood
anything but filial or comforting. Still, at such times a kick seemed a
comfort to her, and she would gladly have kissed the rod that was the
instrument of my midnight wrath.

But her tender star was destined soon to a fatal eclipse. Being tied
with too long a rope on one occasion during my temporary absence, she
got her head into the meal barrel, and stopped not till she had devoured
nearly half a bushel of dry meal. The singularly placid and benevolent
look that beamed from the meal-besmeared face when I discovered her was
something to be remembered. For the first time also her spinal column
came near assuming a horizontal line.

But the grist proved too much for her frail mill, and her demise took
place on the third day, not of course without some attempt to relieve
her on my part. I gave her, as is usual in such emergencies, everything
I "could think of" and everything my neighbors could think of, besides
some fearful prescriptions which I obtained from a German veterinary
surgeon, but to no purpose. I imagined her poor maw distended and
inflamed with the baking sodden mass which no physic could penetrate or
enliven.

Thus ended my second venture in live stock. My third, which followed
sharp upon the heels of this disaster, was scarcely more of a success.
This time I led to the altar a buffalo cow, as they call the "mully"
down south--a large, spotted, creamy-skinned cow, with a fine udder,
that I persuaded a Jew drover to part with for ninety dollars. "Pag like
a dish rack (rag)," said he, pointing to her udder after she had been
milked. "You vill come pack and gif me the udder ten tollars" (for he
had demanded an even hundred), he continued, "after you have had her a
gouple of days." True I felt like returning to him after a "gouple of
days," but not to pay the other ten dollars. The cow proved to be as
blind as a bat, though capable of counterfeiting the act of seeing to
perfection. For did she not lift up her head and follow with her eyes a
dog that scaled the fence and ran through the other end of the lot, and
the next moment dash my hopes thus raised by trying to walk over a
locust tree thirty feet high? And when I set the bucket before her
containing her first mess of meal, she missed it by several inches, and
her nose brought up against the ground. Was it a kind of far-sightedness
and near blindness? That was it, I think; she had genius, but not
talent; she could see the man in the moon, but was quite oblivious to
the man immediately in her front. Her eyes were telescopic and required
a long range.

As long as I kept her in the stall, or confined to the enclosure, this
strange eclipse of her sight was of little consequence. But when spring
came, and it was time for her to go forth and seek her livelihood in the
city's waste places, I was embarrassed. Into what remote corners or into
what _terra incognita_ might she not wander! There was little doubt but
she would drift around home in the course of the summer, or perhaps as
often as every week or two; but could she be trusted to find her way
back every night? Perhaps she could be taught. Perhaps her other senses
were acute enough to in a measure compensate her for her defective
vision. So I gave her lessons in the topography of the country. I led
her forth to graze for a few hours each day and led her home again. Then
I left her to come home alone, which feat she accomplished very
encouragingly. She came feeling her way along, stepping very high, but
apparently a most diligent and interested sightseer. But she was not
sure of the right house when she got to it, though she stared at it very
hard.

Again I turned her forth, and again she came back, her telescopic eyes
apparently of some service to her. On the third day there was a fierce
thunderstorm late in the afternoon, and old buffalo did not come home.
It had evidently scattered and bewildered what little wit she had. Being
barely able to navigate those straits on a calm day, what could she be
expected to do in a tempest?

After the storm had passed, and near sundown, I set out in quest of her,
but could get no clue. I heard that two cows had been struck by
lightning about a mile out on the commons. My conscience instantly told
me that one of them was mine. It would be a fit closing of the third act
of this pastoral drama. Thitherward I bent my steps, and there upon the
smooth plain I beheld the scorched and swollen forms of two cows slain
by thunderbolts, but neither of them had ever been mine.

The next day I continued the search, and the next, and the next. Finally
I hoisted an umbrella over my head, for the weather had become hot, and
set out deliberately and systematically to explore every foot of open
common on Capitol hill. I tramped many miles, and found every man's cow
but my own--some twelve or fifteen hundred, I should think. I saw many
vagrant boys and Irish and <DW52> women, nearly all of whom had seen a
buffalo cow that very day that answered exactly to my description, but
in such diverse and widely separate places that I knew it was no cow of
mine. And it was astonishing how many times I was myself deceived; how
many rumps or heads, or liver backs or white flanks I saw peeping over
knolls or from behind fences or other objects that could belong to no
cow but mine!

Finally I gave up the search, concluded the cow had been stolen, and
advertised her, offering a reward. But days passed, and no tidings were
obtained. Hope began to burn pretty low--was indeed on the point of
going out altogether, when one afternoon, as I was strolling over the
commons (for in my walks I still hovered about the scenes of my lost
milcher), I saw the rump of a cow, over a grassy knoll, that looked
familiar. Coming nearer, the beast lifted up her head; and, behold! it
was she! only a few squares from home, where doubtless she had been most
of the time. I had overshot the mark in my search. I had ransacked the
far-off, and had neglected the near-at-hand, as we are so apt to do. But
she was ruined as a milcher, and her history thenceforward was brief and
touching!

                                        JOHN BURROUGHS.




LOVE'S MESSENGERS.


   Who will tell him? Who will teach him?
   Have you voices, merry birds?
   Then be voice for me, and reach him
   With a thousand pleading words.
   Sing my secret, east and west,
   Till his answer be confessed!

   Roses, when you see him coming,
   Light of heart and strong of limb,
   Make your lover-bees stop humming;
   Turn your blushes round to him--
   Blush, dear flowers, that he may learn,
   How a woman's heart can burn!

   Wind--oh, wind--you happy rover!
   Oh that I were half as free--
   Leave your honey-bells and clover,
   Go and seek my love for me.
   Find, kiss, clasp him, make him know
   It is _I_ who love him so!

                                        MARY AINGE DE VERE.




THE HEAD OF HERCULES.


One of the most curious cases that ever came under my notice in a long
course of criminal practice was not brought into any court, and, as I
believe, has never been published until now. The details of the affair
came under my personal cognizance in the following manner:

In 1858 I went down into the Shenandoah valley to spend my summer
vacation among the innumerable Pages, Marshalls, and Cookes who all
hailed me as cousin, by right of traditional intermarriages generations
back. My first visit was to the house of McCormack Beardsley, a kinsman
and school-fellow whom I had not seen since we parted at the university
twenty years before.

We were both gray-haired old fellows now, but I had grown thin and sharp
in the courts of Baltimore and Washington, while he had lived quietly on
his plantation, more fat and jovial and genial with every year.

Beardsley possessed large means then, and maintained the unlimited
hospitality usual among large Virginia planters before the war. The
house was crowded during my stay with my old friends from the valley and
southern countries. His daughter, too, was not only a beauty, but a
favorite among the young people, and brought many attractive, well-bred
girls about her, and young men who were not so attractive or well bred.
Lack of occupation and a definite career had reduced the sons of too
many Virginia families at that time to cards and horses as their sole
pursuits; the war, while it left them penniless, was in one sense their
salvation.

One evening, sitting on the verandah with Beardsley, smoking, and
looking in the open windows of the parlor, I noticed a woman who sat a
little apart, and who, as I fancied, was avoided by the younger girls.
In a Virginia country party there are always two or three unmarried
women, past their first youth, with merry blue eyes, brown hair, and
delicate features--women "with a history," but who are none the less
good dancers, riders, and able to put all their cleverness into the
making of a pie or a match for their cousins. This woman was blue-eyed
and brown-haired, but she had none of the neat, wide-awake
self-possession of her class. She had a more childish expression, and
spoke with a more timid uncertainty, than even Lotty Beardsley, who was
still in the schoolroom. I called my host's attention to her and asked
who she was.

"It is the daughter of my cousin, General George Waring. You remember
him surely--of the Henrico branch of Warings?"

"Certainly. But he had only one child--Louisa; and I remember receiving
an invitation to her wedding years ago."

"Yes. This is Louisa. The wedding never took place. It's an odd story,"
he said, after a pause, "and the truth is, Floyd, I brought the girl
here while you were with us in the hope that you, with your legal
acumen, could solve the mystery that surrounds her. I'll give the facts
to you to-morrow--it's impossible to do it now. But tell me, in the mean
time, how she impresses you, looking at her as a lawyer would at a
client, or a--a prisoner on trial. Do you observe anything peculiar in
her face or manner?"

"I observed a very peculiar manner in all those about her--an effort at
cordiality in which they did not succeed; a certain constraint in look
and tone while speaking to her. I even saw it in yourself just now as
soon as you mentioned her name."

"You did? I'm sorry for that--exceedingly sorry!" anxiously. "I believe
in Louisa Waring's innocence as I do in that of my own child; and if I
thought she was hurt or neglected in this house---- But there's a cloud
on the girl, Floyd--that's a fact. It don't amount even to suspicion. If
it did, one could argue it down. But----Well, what do you make of
her--her face now?"

"It is not an especially clever face, nor one that indicates power of
any kind; not the face of a woman who of her own will would be the
heroine of any remarkable story. I should judge her to have been a few
years ago one of the sensible, light-hearted, sweet-tempered girls of
whom there are so many in Virginia; a nice housekeeper, and one who
would have made a tender wife and mother."

"Well, well? Nothing more?"

"Yes. She has not matured into womanhood as such girls do. She looks as
if her growth in every-day experiences had stopped years ago; that while
her body grew older her mind had halted, immature, incomplete. A great
grief might have had that effect, or the absorption of all her faculties
by one sudden, mastering idea."

"You are a little too metaphysical for me," said Beardsley. "Poor Lou
isn't shrewd by any means, and always gives me the feeling that she
needs care and protection more than most women, if that is what you
mean."

"There is a singular expression in her face at times," I resumed.

"Ah! Now you have it!" he muttered.

"Sitting there in your parlor, where there is certainly nothing to
dread, she has glanced behind and about her again and again, as though
she heard a sound that frightened her. I observe, too, that when any man
speaks to her she fixes on him a keen, suspicious look. She does not
have it with women. It passes quickly, but it is there. It is precisely
the expression of an insane person, or a guilty one dreading arrest."

"You are a close observer, Floyd. I told my wife that we could not do
better than submit the whole case to your judgment. We are all Lou's
friends in the neighborhood; but we cannot look at the matter with your
legal experience and unprejudiced eyes. Come, let us go into supper
now."

The next morning I was summoned to Beardsley's "study" (so called
probably from the total absence of either book or newspaper), and found
himself and his wife awaiting me, and also a Doctor Scheffer, whom I had
previously noticed among the guests--a gaunt, hectic young man,
apparently on the high road to death, the victim of an incurable
consumption.

"I asked William Scheffer to meet us here," said Mr. Beardsley, "as
Louisa Waring was an inmate of his father's house at the time of the
occurrence. She and William were children and playmates together. I
believe I am right, William. You knew all the circumstances of that
terrible night?"

The young man's heavy face changed painfully. "Yes; as much as was known
to any one but Louisa, and--the guilty man, whoever he was. But why are
you dragging out that wretched affair?" turning angrily on Mrs.
Beardsley. "Surely any friend of Miss Waring's would try to bury the
past for her!"

"No," said the lady calmly. "It has been buried quite too long, in my
opinion; for she has carried her burden for six years. It is time now
that we should try to lift it for her. You are sitting in a draught,
William. Sit on this sofa."

Scheffer, coughing frightfully, and complaining with all the testiness
of a long-humored invalid, was disposed of at last, and Beardsley began:

"The story is briefly this. Louisa, before her father's death, was
engaged to be married to Colonel Paul Merrick (Merricks of Clarke
county, you know). The wedding was postponed for a year when General
Waring died, and Louisa went to her uncle's--your father, William--to
live during that time. When the year was over, every preparation was
made for the marriage: invitations were sent to all the kinsfolk on both
sides (and that included three or four counties on a rough guess), and
we--the immediate family--were assembled at Major Scheffer's preparing
for the grand event, when----" Beardsley became now excessively hot and
flurried, and getting up, thumped heavily up and down the room.

"After all, there is nothing to tell. Why should we bring in a famous
lawyer to sit in judgment on her as if the girl were a criminal? She
only did, Floyd, what women have done since the beginning--changed her
mind without reason. Paul Merrick was as clever and lovable a young
fellow as you would find in the State, and Louisa was faithful to
him--she's faithful to him yet; but on the night before the wedding she
refused to marry him, and has persisted in the refusal ever since,
without assigning a cause."

"Is that all of the story?" I asked.

Beardsley was silent.

"No," said his wife gently; "that is not all. I thought McCormack's
courage would fail before he gave you the facts. I shall try and tell
you----"

"Only the facts, if you please, without any inferences or opinions of
others."

The old lady paused for a moment, and then began: "A couple of days
before the wedding we went over to Major Scheffer's to help prepare for
it. You know we have no restaurateurs nor confectioners to depend upon,
and such occasions are busy seasons. The gentlemen played whist, rode
about the plantation, or tried the Major's wines, while indoors we, all
of us--married ladies and girls and a dozen old aunties--were at work
with cakes, creams, and pastry. I recollect I took over our cook, Prue,
because Lou fancied nobody could make such wine jelly as hers. Then
Lou's trousseau was a very rich one, and she wanted to try on all of her
pretty dresses, that we might see how----"

"My dear!" interrupted Mr. Beardsley, "this really appears irrelevant to
the matter----"

"Not at all. I wish Mr. Floyd to gain an idea of Louisa's temper and
mood at that time. The truth is, she was passionately fond of her lover,
and very happy that her marriage was so near; and being a modest little
thing, she hid her feeling under an incessant, merry chatter about
dresses and jellies. Don't you agree with me, William?"

The sick man turned on the sofa with a laugh, which looked ghastly
enough on his haggard face. "I submit, Aunt Sophie, that it is hardly
fair to call me in as a witness in this case. I waited on Lou for two or
three years, Mr. Floyd, and she threw me over for Merrick. It is not
likely that I was an unprejudiced observer of her moods just then."

"Nonsense, William. I knew that was but the idlest flirtation between
you, or I should not have brought you here now," said his aunt. "Well,
Mr. Floyd, the preparations all were completed on the afternoon before
the wedding. Some of the young people had gathered in the library--Paul
Merrick and his sisters and--you were there, William?"

"Yes, I was there."

"And they persuaded Lou to put on her wedding dress and veil to give
them a glimpse of the bride. I think it was Paul who wished it. He was a
hot, eager young fellow, and he was impatient to taste his happiness by
anticipation. It was a dull, gusty afternoon in October. I remember the
contrast she made to the gray, cold day as she came in, shy and
blushing, and her eyes sparkling, in her haze of white, and stood in
front of the window. She was so lovely and pure that we were all silent.
It seemed as if she belonged then to her lover alone, and none of us had
a right to utter a word. He went up to her, but no one heard what he
said, and then took her by the hand and led her reverently to the door.
Presently I met her coming out of her chamber in a cloak and hat. Her
maid Abby was inside, folding the white dress and veil. 'I am going down
to Aunty Huldah's,' Lou said to me. 'I promised her to come again before
I was married and tell her the arrangements all over once more.' Huldah
was an old <DW52> woman, Lou's nurse, who lived down on the creek bank
and had long been bedridden. I remember that I said to Louisa that the
walk would be long and lonely, and told her to call Paul to accompany
her. She hesitated a moment, and then turned to the door, saying Huldah
would probably be in one of her most funereal moods, and that she would
not have Paul troubled on the eve of his wedding day. She started,
running and looking back with a laugh, down the hill." Mrs. Beardsley
faltered and stopped.

"Go on," said Dr. Scheffer. "The incidents which follow are all that
really affect Louisa's guilt or innocence."

"Go on, mother," said Beardsley hastily. "Louisa's innocence is not
called in question. Remember that. Tell everything you know without
scruple."

The old lady began again in a lower voice: "We expected an arrival that
afternoon--Houston Simms, a distant kinsman of Major Scheffer's. He was
from Kentucky--a large owner of blooded stock--and was on his way home
from New York, where his horses had just won the prizes at the fall
races. He had promised to stop for the wedding, and the carriage had
been sent to the station to meet him. The station, as you know, is five
miles up the road. By some mistake the carriage was late, and Houston
started, with his valise in his hand, to walk to the house, making a
short cut through the woods. When the carriage came back empty, and the
driver told this to us, some of the young men started down to meet the
old gentleman. It was then about four o'clock, and growing dark rapidly.
The wind, I recollect, blew sharply, and a cold rain set in. I came out
on the long porch, and walked up and down, feeling uneasy and annoyed at
Louisa's prolonged absence. Colonel Merrick, who had been looking for
her all through the house, had just learned from me where she had gone,
and was starting with umbrellas to meet her, when she came suddenly up
to us, crossing the ploughed field, not from the direction of Huldah's
cabin, but from the road. We both hurried toward her; but when she
caught sight of Colonel Merrick she stopped short, putting out her hands
with a look of terror and misery quite indescribable. 'Take me away from
him! Oh, for God's sake!' she cried. I saw she had suffered some great
shock, and taking her in my arms, led her in, motioning him to keep
back. She was so weak as to fall, but did not faint, nor lose
consciousness for a single moment. All night she lay, her eyes wandering
from side to side as in momentary expectancy of the appearance of some
one. No anodyne had any effect upon her--every nerve seemed strained to
its utmost tension. But she did not speak a word except at the sound of
Colonel Merrick's voice or step, when she would beg piteously that he
should be kept away from her. Toward morning she fell into a kind of
stupor, and when she awoke appeared to be calmer. She beckoned to me,
and asked that her uncle Scheffer and Judge Grove, her other guardian,
should be sent for. She received them standing, apparently quite grave
and composed. She asked that several other persons should be called in,
desiring, she said, to have as many witnesses as possible to what she
was about to make known. 'You all know,' she said, 'that to-morrow was
to have been my wedding day. I wish you now to bear witness that I
refuse to-day or at any future time to marry Paul Merrick, and that no
argument or persuasion will induce me to do so. And I wish,' raising her
hand, to keep silence--'I wish to say publicly that it is no fault or
ill doing of Colonel Merrick's that has driven me to this resolve. I
say this as in the sight of Almighty God.' Nobody argued, or scarcely,
indeed, spoke to her. Every one saw that she was physically a very ill
woman; and it was commonly believed that she had received some sudden
shock which had unhinged her mind. An hour afterward the searching party
came in (for the young men, not finding Houston Simms, had gone out
again to search for him). They had found his dead body concealed in the
woods by Mill's spring. You know the place. There was a pistol shot
through the head, and a leathern pocketbook, which had apparently
contained money, was found empty a few feet away. That was the end of it
all, Mr. Floyd."

"You mean that Simms's murderer was never found?"

"Never," said Beardsley, "though detectives were brought down from
Richmond and set on the track. Their theory--a plausible one enough
too--was that Simms had been followed from New York by men who knew the
large sum he earned from the races, and that they had robbed and
murdered him, and readily escaped through the swamps."

"It never was my belief," said Dr. Scheffer, "that he was murdered at
all. It was hinted that he had stopped in a gambling house in New York,
and there lost whatever sum he had won at the races; and that rather
than meet his family in debt and penniless, he blew out his brains in
the first lonely place to which he came. That explanation was plain
enough."

"What was the end of the story so far as Miss Waring was concerned?" I
asked.

"Unfortunately, it never has had an end," said Mrs. Beardsley. "The
mystery remains. She was ill afterward; indeed, it was years before she
regained her bodily strength as before. But her mind had never been
unhinged, as Paul Merrick thought. He waited patiently, thinking that
some day her reason would return, and she would come back to him. But
Louisa Waring was perfectly sane even in the midst of her agony on that
night. From that day until now she has never by word or look given any
clue by which the reason of her refusal to marry him could be
discovered. Of course the murder and her strange conduct produced a
great excitement in this quiet neighborhood. But you can imagine all
that. I simply have given you the facts which bear on the case."

"The first suspicion, I suppose, rested on Merrick?" I said.

"Yes. The natural explanation of her conduct was that she had witnessed
an encounter in the woods between Simms and her lover, in which the old
man was killed. Fortunately, however, Paul Merrick had not left the
house once during the afternoon until he went out with me to meet her."

"And then Miss Waring was selected as the guilty party?"

No one answered for a moment. Young Scheffer lay with his arm over his
face, which had grown so worn and haggard as the story was told that I
doubted whether his affection for the girl had been the slight matter
which he chose to represent it.

"No," said Beardsley; "she never was openly accused, nor even subjected
to any public interrogation. She came to the house in the opposite
direction from the spot where the murder took place. And there was no
rational proof that she had any cognizance of it. But there were not
wanting busybodies to suggest that she had met Simms in the woods, and
at some proffered insult from him had fired the fatal shot."

His wife's fair old face flushed. "How can you repeat such absurdity,
McCormack?" she said. "Louisa Waring was as likely to go about armed
as--as I!" knitting vehemently at a woollen stocking she had held idly
until now.

"I know it was absurd, my dear. But you know as well as I that though it
was but the mere breath of suspicion, it has always clung to the girl
and set her apart as it were from other women."

"What effect did that report have on Merrick?" I asked.

"The effect it would have on any man deserving the name," said
Beardsley. "If he loved her passionately before, she has been, I
believe, doubly dear to him since. But she has never allowed him to meet
her since that night."

"You think her feeling is unchanged for him?"

"I have no doubt of it," Mrs. Beardsley said. "There is nothing in Lou's
nature out of which you could make a heroine of tragedy. After the first
shock of that night was over she was just the commonplace little body
she was before, and could not help showing how fond she was of her old
lover. But she quietly refused to ever see him again."

"Merrick went abroad three years ago," interposed her husband. "I'll let
you into a secret, Floyd. I've determined there shall be an end of this
folly. I have heard from him that he will be at home next week, and is
as firm as ever in his resolve to marry Miss Waring. I brought her here
so that she could not avoid meeting him. Now if you, Floyd, could only
manage--could look into this matter before the meeting, and set it to
rights, clear the poor child of this wretched suspicion that hangs about
her? Well, now you know why I have told you the story."

"You have certainly a sublime faith in Mr. Floyd's skill," said Scheffer
with a disagreeable laugh. "I wish him success." He rose with
difficulty, and wrapping his shawl about him, went feebly out of the
room.

"William is soured through his long illness," Beardsley hastened to say
apologetically. "And he cared more for Lou than I supposed. We were
wrong to bring him in this morning"; and he hurried out to help him up
the stairs. Mrs. Beardsley laid down her knitting, and glanced
cautiously about her. I saw that the vital point of her testimony had
been omitted until now.

"I think it but right to tell you--nobody has ever heard it
before"--coming close to me, her old face quite pale. "When I undressed
Louisa that night her shoes and stockings were stained, and a long
reddish hair clung to her sleeve. _She had trodden over the bloody
ground and handled the murdered man._"

Every professional man will understand me when I say I was glad to hear
this. Hitherto the girl's whim and the murder appeared to me two events
connected only by the accident of occurrence on the same day. Now there
was but one mystery to solve.

Whatever success I have had in my practice has been due to my habit of
boldly basing my theories upon the known character of the parties
implicated, and not upon more palpable accidental circumstances. Left to
myself now, I speedily resolved this case into a few suppositions,
positive to me as facts. The girl had been present at the murder. She
was not naturally reticent: was instead an exceptionally confiding,
credulous woman. Her motive for silence, therefore, must have been a
force brought to bear on her at the time of the murder stronger than her
love for Merrick, and which was still existing and active. Her refusal
to meet her lover I readily interpreted to be a fear of her own
weakness--dread lest she should betray this secret to him. Might not her
refusal to marry him be caused by the same fear? some crushing disgrace
or misery which threatened her through the murder, and which she feared
to bring upon her husband? The motive I had guessed to be strong as her
love: what if it were her love? Having stepped from surmise to surmise
so far, I paused to strengthen my position by the facts. There were but
two ways in which this murder could have prevented her marriage--through
Merrick's guilt or her own. His innocence was proven; hers I did not
doubt after I had again carefully studied her face. Concealed guilt
leaves its secret signature upon the mouth and eye in lines never to be
mistaken by a man who has once learned to read them.

Were there but these two ways? There was a third, more probable than
either--_fear_. At the first presentation of this key to the riddle the
whole case mapped itself out before me. The murderer had sealed her lips
by some threat. He was still living, and she was in daily expectation of
meeting him. She had never seen his face, but had reason to believe him
of her own class. (This supposition I based on her quick, terrified
inspection of every man's face who approached her.) Now what threat
could have been strong enough to keep a weak girl silent for years, and
to separate her from her lover on their wedding day? I knew women well
enough to say, none against herself; the threat I believed hung over
Merrick's head, and would be fulfilled if she betrayed the secret or
married him, which, with a weak, loving woman, was equivalent, as any
man would know, to betrayal.

I cannot attempt to make the breaks in this reasoning solid ground for
my readers; it was solid ground for me.

The next morning Beardsley met me on leaving the breakfast table. He
held a letter open in his hand, and looked annoyed and anxious.

"Here's a note from Merrick. He sailed a week sooner than he
expected--has left New York, and will be here to-night. If I had only
put the case in your hands earlier! I had a hope that you could clear
the little girl. But it's too late. She'll take flight as soon as she
hears he is coming. Scheffer says it's a miserable, bloody muddle, and
that I was wrong to stir it up."

"I do not agree with Dr. Scheffer," I said quietly. "I am going now to
the library. In half an hour send Miss Waring to me."

"You have not yet been presented to her?"

"So much the better. I wish her to regard me as a lawyer simply. State
to her as formally as you choose who I am, and that I desire to see her
on business."

I seated myself in the library; placed pen and ink, and some
legal-looking documents, selected at random, before me. Red tape and the
formal pomp of law constitute half its force with women and men of
Louisa's calibre. I had hardly arranged myself and my materials when the
door slowly opened, and she entered. She was alarmed, yet wary. To see a
naturally hearty, merry little body subjected for years to this nervous
strain, with a tragic idea forced into a brain meant to be busied only
with dress, cookery, or babies, appeared to me a pitiful thing.

"Miss Waring?" reducing the ordinary courtesies to a curt, grave nod.
"Be seated, if you please." I turned over my papers slowly, and then
looked up at her. I had, I saw, none of the common feminine shrewdness
to deal with; need expect no subtle devices of concealment; no clever
doublings; nothing but the sheer obstinacy which is an unintellectual
woman's one resource. I would ignore it and her--boldly assume full
possession of the ground at the first word.

"My errand to this house, Miss Waring, is in part the investigation of a
murder in 1854, of which you were the sole witness--that of Houston
Simms----"

I stopped. The change in her face appalled me. She had evidently not
expected so direct an attack. In fact, Beardsley told me afterward that
it was the first time the subject had been broached to her in plain
words. However, she made no reply, and I proceeded in the same formal
tone:

"I shall place before you the facts which are in my possession, and
require your assent to such as are within your knowledge. On the
afternoon of Tuesday, October 5, 1854, Houston Simms left the Pine
Valley station, carrying a valise containing a large sum of money.
You----"

She had been sitting on the other side of the table, looking steadily at
me. She rose now. She wore a blue morning dress, with lace ruffles and
other little fooleries in which women delight, and I remember being
shocked with the strange contrast between this frippery and the
speechless dread and misery of her face. She gained control of her voice
with difficulty.

"Who has said that I was a witness of the murder?" she gasped. "I always
explained that I was in another part of the wood. I went to aunty
Huldah----"

"Pray do not interrupt me, Miss Waring. I am aware that you were the
witness--the sole witness--in this matter." (She did not contradict me.
I was right in my first guess--she had been alone with the murderer.)
"On returning from your nurse's cabin you left the direct path and
followed the sound of angry voices to the gorge by Mill's spring----"

"I did not go to play the spy. He lied when he said that," she cried
feebly. "I heard the steps, and thought Colonel Merrick had come to
search for me."

"That matters nothing. You saw the deed done. The old man was killed,
and then robbed, in your sight"--I came toward her, and lowered my voice
to a stern, judicial whisper, while the poor girl shrank back as though
I were law itself uttering judgment upon her. If she had known what
stagy guesswork it all was! "When you were discovered, the murderer
would have shot you to insure your silence."

"I wish he had! It was Thad who would have done that. The white man's
way was more cruel--oh, God knows it was more cruel!"

(There were two then.) I was very sorry for the girl, but I had a keen
pleasure in the slow unfolding of the secret, just as I suppose the
physician takes delight in the study of a new disease, even if it kills
the patient.

"Yes," I said with emphasis. "I believe that it would have been less
suffering for you, Miss Waring, to have died then than to have lived,
forced as you were to renounce your lover, and to carry about with you
the dread of the threat made by those men."

"I have not said there was a threat made. I have betrayed nothing." She
had seated herself some time before by the table. There was a large
bronze inkstand before her, and as she listened she arranged a half
dozen pens evenly on the rest. The words she heard and spoke mattered
more to her than life or death; her features were livid as those of a
corpse, yet her hands went on with their mechanical work--one pen did
not project a hair's breadth beyond the other. We lawyers know how
common such puerile, commonplace actions are in the supreme moments of
life, and how seldom men wring their hands, or use tragic gesture, or
indeed words.

"No, you have betrayed nothing," I said calmly. "Your self-control has
been remarkable, even when we remember that you believed your confession
would be followed by speedy vengeance, not on your head, but Colonel
Merrick's."

She looked up not able to speak for a minute. "You--you know all?"

"Not all, but enough to assure you that your time of suffering is over.
You can speak freely, unharmed."

Her head dropped on the table. She was crying, and, I think, praying.

"You saw Houston Simms killed by two men, one of whom, the <DW64> Thad,
you knew. The white man's face was covered. You did not recognize him.
But he knew you, and the surest way to compel you to silence. I wish you
now to state to me all the details of this man's appearance, voice, and
manner, to show me any letters which you have received from him since"
(a random guess, which I saw hit the mark)--"in short, every
circumstance which you can recall about him."

She did not reply.

"My dear Miss Waring, you need have no fear on Colonel Merrick's
account. The law has taken this matter out of your hands. Colonel
Merrick is protected by the law."

"Oh! I did not understand," meekly.

To be brief, she told me the whole story. When she reached the spring
she had found the old man bleeding and still breathing. He died in her
arms. The men, who had gone back into the laurel to open the valise,
came back upon her. The <DW64> was a desperate character, well known in
the county. He had died two years later. The other man was masked and
thoroughly disguised. He had stopped the <DW64> when he would have killed
her, and after a few minutes' consultation had whispered to him the
terms upon which she was allowed to escape.

"You did not hear the white man's voice?"

"Not once."

"Bring me the letters you have received from him."

She brought two miserably spelled and written scrawls on soiled bits of
paper. It was the writing of an educated man, poorly disguised. He
threatened to meet her speedily, warned her that he had spies constantly
about her.

"That is all the evidence you can give me?"

"All." She rose to go. I held the door open for her, when she hesitated.

"There was something more--a mere trifle."

"Yes. But most likely the one thing that I want."

"I returned to the spring again and again for months afterward. People
thought I was mad. I may have been; but I found there one day a bit of
reddish glass with a curious mark on it."

"You have it here?"

She brought it to me. It was a fragment of engraved sardonyx, apparently
part of a seal; the upper part of a head was cut upon it; the short
hairs curving forward on the low forehead showed that the head was that
of Hercules.

Some old recollection rose in my brain, beginning, as I may say, to
gnaw uncertainly. I went to my room for a few minutes to collect myself,
and then sought Beardsley.

He was pacing up and down the walk to the stables, agitated as though he
had been the murderer.

"Well, Floyd, well! What chance is there? What have you discovered?"

"Everything. One moment. I have a question or two to ask you. About ten
years ago you commissioned me to buy for you in New York a seal--an
intaglio of great value--a head of Hercules, as I remember. What did you
do with it?"

"Gave it to Job Scheffer, William's father. Will has it now, though I
think it is broken."

"Very well. What have Dr. Scheffer's habits been, by the way? Was he as
fond of turning the cards as the other young fellows?"

"Oh, yes, poor boy! There was a rumor some years ago that he was
frightfully involved in Baltimore--that it would ruin the old man, in
fact, to clear off his debts of honor. But it died out. I suppose
William found some way of straightening them out."

"Probably. Where is Dr. Scheffer now? I have a message for him."

"In his room. But this matter of Louisa Waring----"

"Presently. Have patience."

I went up to the young man's room. After all, the poor wretch was dying,
and to compel him to blast his own honorable name seemed but brutal
cruelty. I had to remember the poor girl's wasted face and hopeless eyes
before I could summon courage to open the door after I had knocked. I
think he expected me, and knew all that I had to say. A man in health
would soon have known that I was acting on surmise, and defied me to the
proof. Scheffer, I fancied, had been creeping through life for years
with death in two shapes pursuing him, step by step. He yielded, cowed
submissive at the first touch, and only pleaded feebly for mercy.

The <DW64> had been his body servant--knew his desperate straits, and
dragged him into the crime. Then, he had loved Louisa: he was maddened
by her approaching marriage. The scheme of ensuring her silence and
driving Merrick away was the inspiration of a moment, and had succeeded.
He only asked for mercy. His time was short. He could not live beyond a
few weeks. I would not bring him to the gallows.

I was merciful, and I think was right to be so. His deposition was taken
before his uncle, Mr. Beardsley, who was a magistrate, and two other men
of position and weight in the community. It was to be kept secret until
after his death, and then made public. He was removed at once to his
father's house.

On Colonel Merrick's arrival that evening, this deposition was formally
read to him. I do not think it impressed him very much. He was resolved
to marry Miss Waring in spite of every obstacle.

"But I never would have married you unless the truth had been
discovered--never," she said to him that evening as they stood near me
in the drawing-room. Her cheeks were warm, and her dark eyes full of
tender light. I thought her a very lovely woman.

"Then I owe you to Mr. Floyd after all?" he said, looking down at her
fondly.

"Oh, I suppose so," with a shrug. "But he is a very disagreeable person!
Cast-iron, you know. I am so thankful _you_ are not a lawyer, Paul."

                                        JAMES M. FLOYD.




ROMANCE.


   I would I were mighty, victorious,
     A monarch of steel and of gold--
   I would I were one of the glorious
     Divinities hallowed of old--
   A god of the ancient sweet fashion
     Who mingled with women and men,
   A deity human in passion,
     Transhuman in strength and in ken.

   For then I could render the pleasure
     I win from the sight of your face;
   For then I could utter my treasure
     Of homage and thanks for your grace;
   I could dower, illumine, and gladden,
     Could rescue from perils and tears,
   And my speech could vibrate and madden
     With eloquence worthy your ears.

   You meet me: you smile and speak kindly;
     One minute I marvel and gaze,
   Idolatrous, worshipping blindly,
     Yet mindful of decorous ways.
   You pass; and the glory is ended,
     Though lustres and sconces may glow:
   The goddess who made the scene splendid
     Has vanished; and darkly I go.

   You know not how swiftly you mounted
     The throne in the depths of my eyes;
   You care not how meekly I counted
     Those moments for pearls of the skies;
   Or, knowing it, all is forgotten
     The moment I pass from your sight--
   Consigned to the fancies begotten
     Of chaos and slumber and night.

   But I--I remember your glances,
     Your carelessest gesture and word,
   And out of them fashion romances
     Man never yet uttered nor heard;
   Romances too splendid for mortals,
     Too sweet for a planet of dole;
   Romances which open the portals
     Of Eden, and welcome my soul.

                                        J. W. DEFOREST.




BEER.


Poets, in every age since the time of Anacreon, have sung odes in praise
of wine. The greatest bards of every clime have sought inspiration in
its sparkling depths. But the poet, even German, is yet unborn, who,
moved by sweet memories of the nectar of his fatherland, shall chant in
rhyme the virtues of his national drink. Yet though its merit has
inspired neither of the sister graces, poetry and song, to strike the
lyre in its honor, it has had, none the less, an important mission to
perform. To its plebeian sister beer, as a healthful beverage, wine must
yield the palm. As a common drink, suited to human nature's daily need,
it has never been surpassed. If it has nerved no hand to deeds of
daring, or struck the scintillating sparks of genius from the human
brain, it has added immensely to the health, long life, and happiness of
many nations, and is destined to still greater triumphs, as life becomes
studied more from a hygienic standpoint.

Beer is believed to have been invented by the Egyptians, and is of
almost universal use; the zone of the cereals being more extended than
that of the grape. Greek writers before Christ mention a drink composed
of barley, under the name of _zythos_. This beverage was not unknown to
the Romans, and we find it first mentioned by the historian Tacitus. By
the nations of the West it was regarded as a nourishing drink for poor
people. They prepared it from honey and wheat. Among the ancient Germans
and Scandinavians, however, beer was in former times the national
beverage, and was prepared from barley, wheat, or oats, with the
addition of oak bark, and later of hops.

The ancients put bitter herbs in beer, and the present use of hops is in
imitation. Modern beer was born at the time of Charlemagne, an epoch at
which hops were first cultivated. The earliest writing in which one
finds mention of hops as an aroma to beer is in a parchment of St.
Hildegarde, abbess of the convent of St. Rupert, at Bingen on the Rhine.
The art of fabricating beer remained for a long time a privilege of
convents. The priests drank Pater's beer, while the lighter or convent
beer was used by the laity. Although beer has been manufactured of all
the cereals, barley only can be called its true and legitimate father.

Bavaria and Franconia were already in the fourteenth century celebrated
for their excellent beer, and the German cities, of which each one soon
had its own brewery, vied with their predecessors. In the fifteenth and
sixteenth centuries the Upper and Lower Saxony breweries became well
known. The Braunschweiger, Einbeker, Goettinger, Bremer, and Hamburger
beer, as well as the breweries of the cities of Wuerzen, Zwickau, Torgau,
Merseburg, and Goslar, were far and wide celebrated. Bavarian beer has
long made the tour of the world. Bock beer from Bavaria and from the
Erzgebirge is exported to Java and China.

German lager beer, as a healthy and lightly stimulating beverage, is
welcome in both hot and cold countries. It is liked as well by the
Russians and Scandinavians as by the inhabitants of the tropics. It is
brewed by Germans in all parts of the globe--in Valenciennes, Antwerp,
Madrid, Constantinople, and even in Australia, Chili, and Brazil.

The English commenced later than the Germans to make beer. In 1524,
however, they not only brewed beer, but used hops in its fabrication.

The Greek and Latin races, which drank wine, had but little taste for
beer, which divided them from the Germanic races as a sharp boundary.
Beer and wine seem to have had an influence in forming the temperament
of these widely differing races. While wine excites the nervous system,
beer tranquillizes and calms it. The action of a particular kind of
daily drink, used for centuries, must in this respect have been more or
less potent. Hence, perhaps, the Teuton's phlegm and the Gaul's
excitability.

There may be said to be three principal types of beer--the Bavarian,
Belgian, and English. The Bavarian is obtained by the infusion or
decoction of sprouted barley; then by the fermentation of deposit, in
tubs painted internally with resin. The varieties most appreciated are
the Bock and Salvator beers. The beers of Belgium have the special
character of being prepared by spontaneous fermentation, and the process
is therefore slow. The principal varieties are the Lambick, the Faro,
the March beer, and the Uytzd. In the English beer the must is prepared
by simple infusion and the fermentation is superficial. On account of
its great alcoholic richness it is easily conserved. The ale, the
porter, and the stout are the chief varieties of English beer, which
differ among themselves only by the diverse proportion of their
ingredients and the different degrees of torrefaction of the barley,
rendering it more or less brown. In France only the superficial method
of fermentation is employed. In a litre of Strasburg beer one finds 5
1-4 grammes of albumen, 45 grammes of alcohol, and .091 of salts. The
ordinary Bavarian beer contains three per cent. of alcohol and six and a
half per cent. of nourishing extracts. The beers the most sticky to the
touch are the heaviest in volume and the most nutritious. It is
historical that in very olden days the Munich city fathers tried the
goodness of the beer by pouring it out on a bench and then sitting down
in their leather inexpressibles, and approved of it only when they
remained glued to the seat.

In Nuremberg there is a school of brewers, where one may learn all the
mysteries of beer brewing. Certain breweries, however, pretend to
possess secrets pertaining to the art known exclusively to them. For
example, one family near Leipsic is said to have possessed for a century
the secret which chemistry has tried in vain to discover, of making the
famous Gose beer.

"Good beer," says Dr. Paolo Mantegazza, a celebrated Italian writer on
medicine, "is certainly one of the most healthy of alcoholic drinks. The
bitter tonic, the richness of the alimentary principle which it
contains, and its digestibility make it a real liquid food, which, for
many temperaments, is medicine. The English beer, which is stronger in
spirit than some wines, never produces on the stomach that union of
irritating phenomena vulgarly called heat, and for this reason beer is
often tolerated by the most weak and irritable persons, and can be drunk
with advantage in grave diseases."[A] Laveran, a French physician,
counsels it for consumptives, and for nervous thin people in the most
diverse climates.

In the intoxication by beer there is always more or less stupidity. Beer
is by no means favorable to _l'esprit_. It is doubtful if it has ever
inspired the great poets or the profound thinkers who make Germany, in
science, the leading country in Europe. Reich, Voigt, and many great
writers have launched their anathemas against it. As a stimulant beer is
less potent than wine or tea and coffee. The forces of soldiers have
never been sustained on a fatiguing march, nor can they be incited to a
battle, by plentiful libations of beer. During the late French-Prussian
war nearly every provision train which left Bavaria carried supplies of
beer to the Bavarian troops. It was found very favorable for the
convalescent soldiers in the hospitals, but inferior to coffee or wine
as a stimulant on the eve of battle.

The old chroniclers of Bavaria relate this curious tale of the origin of
the celebrated bock beer. There was one day in olden times at the table
of the Duke of Bavaria, as guest, a Brunswick nobleman. Now there had
long prevailed at the court the custom of presenting to noble guests,
after the meal, a beaker of the Bavarian barley juice, not without a
warning as to its strength. The Brunswicker received the usual cup,
emptied it at a draught, and pronounced it excellent. "But," he
continued, "such barley juice as we brew at home in Brunswick is
equalled by no other. Our Mumme is the king of beers, so that the
bravest drinker cannot take two beakers of it without sinking under the
table." The duke listened with displeasure to the haughty words of the
knight, for he was not a little proud of the brewings of his country,
and commanded his cup-bearer, with a meaning look, to challenge him.

"By your leave, Sir Knight," replied the page, "what you say is not
quite true. If it pleases you and my lord Duke, I should like to lay a
wager with you."

The duke nodded assent, and the knight, smiling scornfully, challenged
the cup-bearer to pledge him.

"Your Brunswick Mumme," continued the page, "may pass as a refreshing
drink; but with our beer you cannot compare it, for the best of our
brewings is unknown to you. In case, however, you please again to make
your appearance at the hospitable court of my gracious lord, I will
promise you a beaker of beer which cannot be equalled in any other
country of united Christendom. I will drink the greatest bumper that can
be found in our court of your Mumme at one draught, if you can take of
our beer, even slowly, three beakers. He who a half hour afterward can
stand on one leg and thread a needle shall win the wager, and receive
from the other a mighty cask of Tokayer Rebensafte."

This speech received loud applause, and the Brunswicker laughingly
accepted the challenge.

After the knight had departed the duke tapped the page on the shoulder
and said, "Take care that thou dost not repent thy word, and that the
Brunswicker does not win the wager."

The first morning in May the Brunswicker rode into the castle and was
welcomed by the duke. All eyes were turned on the cup-bearer, who
shortly afterward appeared with a suite of pages carrying on a bier two
little casks, one bearing the Bavarian arms and the other those of
Brunswick. The right to give to the contents of the former a particular
name was reserved to the duke. The page produced likewise a monstrous
silver bumper and three beakers of the ordinary size. It was long before
the bumper was filled to the rim, and then it required two men to raise
it to the table. In the mean time another page placed the three beakers
before the knight, who could not suppress a sarcastic laugh at the huge
bumper which the page, taking in his strong arms, placed to his lips. As
the knight emptied the last beaker the cup-bearer turned down the
bumper. Two needles and a bundle of silk lay on the table. It wanted a
few moments of the half hour, and the Brunswicker ran toward the garden
for fresh air. Hardly arrived in the court, a peculiar swimming of the
head seized him, so that he fell to the ground. A servant saw him from
the window, and hastened out, followed by the court, with the duke in
advance. There lay the Brunswicker, and tried in vain to rise.

"By all the saints, Herr Ritter, what has thrown you in the sand?"
inquired the duke sympathetically.

"The bock, the bock" (the goat, the goat), murmured the knight with a
heavy tongue.

A burst of sarcastic laughter echoed in the courtyard. In the mean time
the page stood on one foot, and without swaying threaded the needle.

"The bock, the bock," repeated the duke smiling. "Our beer is no longer
without a name. It shall be called bock, that one may take care."

The bock season lasts about six weeks, from May into June. Just before
it commences a transparency of a goat, drinking from a tall, slender
glass, is placed as a sign before certain beer locals, called in Munich
dialect bock stalls, not because goats are kept there, but because
wonderful beer, called bock, is dispensed.

He who has not lived in Bavaria can have no idea of what importance beer
is in Bavarian life. There are in Munich Germans who exist only for
beer, and there have been pointed out to me old gentlemen who have
frequented daily the same local for twenty-five or thirty years, and
even occupied the same seat, and pounded the same table, by way of
enforcing their views, in discussing the politics of the day. They are
called _Stammgaeste_ (literally stock guests), and are much honored in
their respective locals.

The greatest personages do not disdain the meanest locals, provided the
beer is good and to their taste. Naked pine tables do not disgust them,
nor the hardest benches. Often on the table skins of radishes, crusts of
bread, cigar stumps, tobacco ashes, herring heads, and cheese rinds form
a fragrant _melange_. The inheritors of this precious legacy push it
away without undue irritability. Radishes are carried about by old women
called _radi-weibers_, who do a thriving business besides in nuts and
herrings. One cannot find in any other country of the world radishes of
such size, tenderness, and flavor--a brown variety inherited by the
happy Muencheners with their breweries. Nowhere else does cutting and
salting them rank as an art. To prepare one scientifically they pare it
carefully, slit it in three slices nearly to the end, place salt on the
top, and draw the finger over it, as if it were a pack of cards. The
salt falls between the slices, and when they are pressed together
becomes absorbed.

In a German _Bier Local_ are represented all classes of society. Beer is
the great leveller of social distinctions. The foaming glass of King
Gambrinus unites all Germans of all states, climates, and professions
in a closer brotherhood than the sceptre of the Hohenzollerns, and links
that portion of the Teutonic race over which the stars and stripes
throws its protecting folds to the dear fatherland.

Fine wines are a perquisite of money. The fortunate aristocrat and the
house of Israel, which everywhere waxes fat on the needs of travellers,
may sip their champagne, their Lachrymae Christi, and their Hockheimer,
while less favored humanity contents itself with sour _vin ordinaire_;
but beer is the same for all, and in some breweries each one must search
for a glass, rinse it, and present himself in his turn at the shank
window, to which there is no royal road. "La biere," which a great
writer calls "ce vin de la reforme," is essentially a democratic drink.
It became popular at a time when a fatal blow had been struck at class
privileges and priestly exclusiveness.

Manfully does a true-hearted Bavarian stand by his brewery, in ill as
well as good report. If the beer turns out badly, he does not find it a
sufficient reason to desert his local for some other, but rather remains
with touching devotion, and anticipates the approaching end of the old
beer and the advent of new, with implicit trust and confidence in the
future. Some years ago the Bavarian post and railway conductors
distinguished themselves by the mournful zeal with which they notified
to the passengers the nearing of the frontier. At each station they were
sorrowfully communicative.

"The last Bairischer[B] but four, gentlemen! Gentlemen, there are only
two more real Bairischers! Gentlemen," with tears in the voice, "the
last Bairischer."

The passengers rushed to the buffet and drank.

Even now, with that curious affection with which every Bavarian's heart
turns to his Mecca of beer, the salutation to a stranger is, "Are you
going to Munich? _Da werden sie gutes Bier trinken._"[C]

"You came from Munich! _Ach!_ _da haben sie gutes Bier getrunken._"[D]

Even in Beerland there are different kinds of beer, like the federal
union, one in many and many in one. Between them are sometimes
irreconcilable differences, as for example, between the white and
Actiens beer of Berlin. The former is made of wheat, and is exclusively
a summer beverage, and a glass of it is fondly termed a "kleine Weisse"
(a little white one), perhaps in irony, for it is served in excentric
mammoth tumblers, which require both hands to lift.

Then there is the Vienna beer, the antipodes of the Bavarian. The latter
must be drunk soon after it is made, while the former must lie many
months in the cellar before it is ready for use. In Austria, that
forcible union of States of clashing interests and nationalities, which
is not a nation, but only a government reposing on bayonets, the
population is divided between the partisans of King Gambrinus and those
of Bacchus.

As little as an artist could maintain that he was familiar with the
works of the great masters when he had not visited Italy, so little
could a beer drinker assert that he had seen beer rightly drunk when he
had not been in Munich. All over the world beer is regarded as a
refreshment, but in Munich it is the elixir of life, the fabled fountain
of youth and happiness. It is looked upon as nourishment by the lower
classes, who drink for dinner two _masses_[E] of it, with soup and black
bread. For the price of the beer they could procure a good portion of
meat, but they universally maintain that they are best nourished with
beer and bread.

The Bavarian drinks to satisfy his "thirst, that beautiful German gift
of God." If he is healthy, he drinks because it keeps his life juices in
their normal state; if he is sick and in pain, because it is a soothing
and harmless narcotic; if he is hungry, because beer is nourishment; if
he has already eaten, because beer promotes digestion; if he is warm,
because it is cooling and refreshing; if he is cold, because it warms
him; if he is fatigued, because it is a tonic and sovereign strength
renewer; if he is angry, because beer soothes him and gives him time to
consider; if he needs courage, because beer is precisely the right
stimulant. Where the Americans fly to their bitters "to tone up the
system and enliven the secretions," the Germans resort to beer; and many
are of opinion that frequent trips to the bock stalls in the spring are
more healing than a visit to Carlsbad or Baden Baden, where one drinks
disgusting water. In all circumstances and all moods they drink and are
comforted.

The Jews believed that the sacred waves of the Jordan were powerful to
wash away all human suffering, either of the soul or body. Faith was
necessary to this pious healing. To the Muenchener beer is the river of
health. His faith in it dates from his earliest infancy, and he resorts
to its beneficent influence at least seven times a day, and drinks his
last _Kruegl_ with apparently the same relish as the first. The quantity
which Germans drink is something incredible. Bavarian students usually
take from five to seven masses per day. (At the German Jesuit seminary
in Prague the novices are allowed daily seven, the clericos ten, and the
priests twelve pints of beer.)

Beer is considered good not only for men, but for women, for girls and
boys, and even unweaned infants.

"Mein Kruegl" the Muenchener speaks of as of his natural and human rights.
He was born with a right to his beer, and his _Kruegl_, as "man is born
with a right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," and
equally with these the State must look after this right. The kruegls, or
beer mugs, of each brewery are inspected by the police, to see if the
measure is correct, and if the ware has no poisonous lead in its
composition. The royal K is stamped on them by the King's authority. The
police also examine the contents of the beer with the same zeal as the
water or the condition of the sewers.

The Germans as a nation are patient of wrong and peace-loving, but the
rumor of a tax on beer raises a frightful commotion, and a riot is often
the consequence. As well tax air, water, and fire as beer, the fifth
element.

In an ancient neighborhood of Munich, behind the post, and best entered
from Maximilian street, is a little square remarkable for its ugliness.
All the houses are old, and one feels upon entering it as if one had
suddenly walked back into the middle ages. On the east side stands a
time-gray, low, irregular building, resembling in architecture, or by
its want of it, nothing of the present age. This is the royal Hof
Brauerei. After 10 A. M. a constant stream of thirsty souls flows along
the streets and narrow alleys leading toward its dismal-looking portals.
Its beer is celebrated as being the finest in the world, and is the
standard by which all other beers are judged. It is the poetry of beer;
it is to all other brewings what Shakespeare is to the drama; what the
Coliseum is to other antiquities. None of the beer is exported or sold;
it is all drunk on the spot, and when it gives out no other brewery can
supply a drop comparable with it. The Parisians, who have heaped every
luxury, from the poles to the tropics, in their capital of the world,
have not enough money in the Bank of France to purchase a cask of it. It
is said that Maximilian II. resolved that the best beer in the world
should be made at the royal brewery in Munich. It has never been
expected that it would yield any revenue, but merely pay its expenses.
It is now under the protection of the present King, and the ingredients
are inspected by an officer of the royal household.

For its dirt, its darkness, and its utter want of service, the Hof
Brauerei is unequalled in the world, and nowhere else can be found such
a mixed society. Entering the low-vaulted room, each one looks anxiously
about for an empty mug. These are of gray stone, containing a mass, the
price of which is seven and a half kreutzers. Spying one, he hastens to
secure it from other competitors. The first who reaches it carries it
off in triumph to the spring in the anteroom, rinses it, and presents
himself behind a queue of predecessors at the shank window, where
several pairs of hands are occupied all day long in filling mugs from
the great casks within. This accomplished, he returns to the guest room
and searches for a seat. If found, it is certainly not luxurious--a
wooden bench of pine, stained by time and continual use to a dark dirt
color, behind an ancient table. The walls and ceiling are grim with age,
and the atmosphere hazy with smoke. The scene baffles description. All
classes of society are represented. Side by side with the noble or
learned professor, one sees the poorest artisan and the common soldier.
Here and there the picturesque face of an artist is in close proximity
to a peasant, and through the smoky atmosphere one catches the gleam of
the scarlet or sky-blue cap of a German student, or the glitter of an
epaulette. The Catholic of the most ultramontane stamp is there, as well
as the Jew, the Protestant, and the freethinker. Here stands a pilgrim
from far America, armed with a Baedeker, and there an Englishman with the
inevitable Murray under his arm, too amazed or disdainful to search for
a mass. Remarkable also are the steady habitues of the place, with
Albert Duerer-like features which look as if hastily hewn out of ancient
wood with two or three blows of a hatchet, or with smoke-dried
physiognomies having a tint like that of a meerschaum pipe, acquired by
years of exposure to the thick atmosphere of smoky breweries. They are
there morning, noon, and night, year in and year out. Some talk over
the news of the day, but most sit in silence. Not a few make a meal with
bread and radishes, or a sausage brought from the nearest pork shop.

In Munich a singular and ancient custom prevails. If by chance the cover
of a mug is left up, any individual who chooses may seize it, and drink
the contents. At the Hof Brauerei I once saw a newly arrived Englishman,
carrying the usual red guidebook, quit the room for an instant, leaving
uncovered his just acquired mass of beer. There came along a
seedy-looking old gentleman, evidently a _Stammgast_. A gleam of
satisfaction stole over his wooden features as he espied the open mug.
Pausing a moment, he lifted it to his lips and slowly drank the
contents. Setting it down empty, with a face mildly radiating
satisfaction, he went his way. Presently the owner of the beer returned,
took his seat, and lifted the mass, without looking, to his lips. With
intense astonishment he put it down again, appeared not to believe the
evidence of his senses, applied his glass to his eye, looked with
anxiety into his mug, and became satisfied of its emptiness. At his
neighbors he cast a quick glance of indignant suspicion--the look of a
Briton whose rights were invaded. No one even looked up; apparently the
occasion was too common to excite attention. Gradually his face regained
its composure. He procured a new supply, and as the wonderful barley
juice disappeared became again calm and happy. Miraculous mixture! Who
would not, under thy benign influence, forget all rancor and bitterness,
even though his deadliest enemy sat opposite?

In the Haupt und Residenz Stadt Muenchen, as Munich is always called in
official documents, many of the breweries bear the names of orders of
monks, because there the friars in olden days made particularly good
beer. The breweries borrowed from them the receipt and the name. Hence
the brewery to the Augustiner, to the Dominikaner, to the Franciskaner,
and the Salvator.

New beer is in all cities of America and Europe a simple fact. In Munich
it is an important public and private family event, concerning each
house as well as the entire city.

The opening of the Salvator brewery in the suburbs of Munich, for its
brief season of a month in the spring, assumes for the inhabitants the
importance of a long anticipated holiday. Thither an eager crowd of
townspeople make pilgrimage. I was present on one of these auspicious
occasions, and found a joyous multitude of more than two thousand
persons, filling to overflowing the capacious building gayly trimmed
with evergreens interspersed with the national colors. A band discoursed
excellent music, that necessary element, without which no German scene
is complete. The waiters, more than usually adroit in supplying the
wants of the crowd, carried in their hands fourteen glasses at a time
with professional dexterity. The peculiar delicacy of the occasion,
aside from the beer, seemed to be cheese, plentifully sprinkled with
black pepper.

Late in the evening the people became more excited and sympathetic, and
then it was proposed to sing "Herr Fisher," a popular German song of the
people. A verse was sung by a few voices as a solo; then followed a
mighty chorus from all the persons present. Each one raised the cover of
his beer mug at the commencement, and let it fall with a clang at the
close of the chorus, with startling effect.

In Munich one-half of the inhabitants appear to be engaged in the
fabrication of beer and the entire population in drinking it. It
impresses one as being the only industry there. The enormous brewery
wagons, drawn by five Norman horses, are ever to be seen. On the trains
going from the city there is ordinarily a beer car painted in festive
white. It bears an inscription, that none may mistake its contents, and
perhaps that the peasants may bless it as it passes. It is looked upon
with as much reverence as if it bore the ark of the covenant.

All over Germany, among the most ordinary of birthday or holiday
presents are the elegantly painted porcelain tops for beer glasses. The
works of great masters may be found copied in exquisite style for this
purpose, as well as illustrations suited to uncultivated tastes. To
these pictures there are appropriate mottoes, and often a verse adapted
to the comprehension of the most uneducated peasant. A favorite among
the Bavarians, judging from the frequency with which it is met with in
all parts of Bavaria, represents a peasant in a balcony waving her
kerchief to her lover, departing in a little skiff, on an intensely blue
sea. Beneath, in patois, is the doggerel:

   Beautifully blue is the sea,
   But my heart aches in me,
   And my heart will never recover
   Till returns my peasant lover.

Equally a favorite is the following:

   A rifle to shoot,
   And a fighting ring to hit,
   And a maiden to kiss,
   Must a lively boy have.

The rings to which the rhyme refers are of huge size, of silver, with a
sharp-edged square of the same metal. They are heirlooms among the
peasants, and are worn on the middle finger. It is the custom in a
quarrel to hit one's adversary with the _Stozzring_ on the cheek, which
it tears open.

In Germany many of the great breweries have summer gardens in the
suburbs of the cities. In Berlin there are magnificent _Biergaerten_,
where the two most necessary elements of German existence, beer and
music, are united. I need only refer to the Hof Jaeger, with its flowers,
fountains, miniature lake, and open-air theatre, where popular comedies
are performed. Three times per week there is an afternoon concert by
one or two regiment bands. Thither the Germans conduct their families.
In the winter there are concert rooms in the cities, where "music is
married," not "to immortal verse," but to beer; and these classical
concerts are patronized by people of high respectability.

Beer is peculiarly suited to the American temperament, too nervous and
sensitive. It is certain that the human race always has, and probably
always will, resort to beverages more or less stimulating. The preaching
of moralists and the efforts of legislators will not exclude them
permanently from our use. It is not in the use but in the abuse of these
that the difficulty lies. Neither tea nor coffee answers for all
temperaments and all occasions as nervous aliments. The extraordinary
and increasing diffusion of liquors is one of the social ulcers of
modern society, particularly in America. It is unfortunately true that
the use of strong alcoholics is increasing every day, to the great
detriment of public health and morals. Taken merely to kill time, they
often end by killing the individual.

One of the great advantages of beer, too much forgotten even by
physicians, is that it reverses the influence of alcohol, by which it
loses its irritating properties on the mucous membrane of the stomach.
The celebrated Dr. Bock (late professor of pathological anatomy in the
university at Leipsic) says, "Beer exercises on the digestion, on the
circulation, on the nerves, and above all on the whole system, a
beneficial effect."[F]

It would be well if Americans would adopt it instead of the innumerable
harmful beverages which ruin the health and poison the peace of society.

                                        S. G. YOUNG.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: "Quadri della Natura Umana."]

[Footnote B: The local term in Bavaria for a glass of beer.]

[Footnote C: There you will drink good beer.]

[Footnote D: There you drank good beer.]

[Footnote E: A _mass_ equals fifteen-sixteenths of a quart.]

[Footnote F: "Buch vom gesunden und kranken Menschen" (9th edition).]




ON READING SHAKESPEARE.

PLAYS OF THE THIRD PERIOD.


We have followed Shakespeare's course of dramatic production down to the
time when he began to embody in the work by which he earned his bread
and made his fortune the results of an intuitive knowledge of human
nature and a profound reflection upon it never surpassed, if ever
equalled, and which, even if possessed, have never been united in any
other man with a power of expression so grand, so direct, so strong, and
so subtle. "Twelfth Night," "Henry V.," and "As You Like It" mark the
close of his second period, which ended with the sixteenth century. His
third period opens with "Hamlet," which was written about the year 1600.
But here I will say that the division of his work into periods, and the
assignment of his plays to certain years, is only inferential and
approximative. We are able to determine with an approach to certainty
about what time most of his plays were written; but we cannot fix their
date exactly. Nor is it of very great importance that we should do so.
There are some people who can fret themselves and others as to whether a
play was written in 1600 or in 1601, as there are others who deem the
question whether its author was born on the 23d of April in one year,
and died on the same day of the same month in another, one of great
importance. I cannot so regard it. A few days in the date of a man's
birth or death, a few months in the production of a play--these are
matters surely of very little moment. What is important to the student
and lover of Shakespeare is the order of the production of his works;
and this, fortunately, is determinable with a sufficient approach to
accuracy to enable us to know about at what age he was engaged upon
them, and what changes in his style and in his views of life they
indicate.

In the first ten years of the seventeenth century, between his
thirty-seventh and forty-seventh year, he produced "Hamlet," "Measure
for Measure," his part of "Pericles," "All's Well that Ends Well," "King
Lear," "Macbeth," "Julius Caesar," "Antony and Cleopatra," "Troilus and
Cressida," "Cymbeline," "Coriolanus," and "Othello." These, with other
works, were the fruit of his mind in its full maturity and vigor. Think
of it a moment! what a period it was! As my eye lights upon the back of
the eleventh volume of my own edition and the eighth of the Cambridge
edition, and I read "HAMLET, KING LEAR, OTHELLO," I am moved with a
sense of admiration and wonder which, if I allow it to continue, becomes
almost oppressive; and I also take pleasure in the result of a
convenience of arrangement that brought into one volume these three
marvellous works--the three greatest productions of man's imagination,
each wholly unlike the others in spirit and in motive.

Although they were not written one after the other, but with an interval
of about five years between them, it would be well to read them
consecutively and in the order above named, which is that in which they
happen to be printed in the first collected edition (1623) of
Shakespeare's plays. They were written--"Hamlet" in 1600-2, "King Lear"
in 1605, and "Othello" about 1610, its date being much more uncertain
than that of either of the others. The thoughtful reader who, having
followed the course previously marked out, now comes to the study of
these tragedies, is prepared to apprehend them justly, not only in their
own greatness, but in their relative position as the product of their
author's mind in its perfected and disciplined maturity--as the splendid
triple crown of Shakespeare's genius. No other dramatist, no other poet,
has given the world anything that can for a moment be taken into
consideration as equal to these tragedies; and Shakespeare himself left
us nothing equal to any one of them, taken as a whole and in detail;
although there are some parts of other late plays--"Macbeth," "Antony
and Cleopatra," "Troilus and Cressida," and "The Tempest"--which, in
their grandeur of imagination and splendor of language, bear the stamp
of this great period.

And yet such was the merely stage-providing nature of Shakespeare's
work, that even "Hamlet," produced at the very height of his reputation,
is, like the Second and Third Parts of "King Henry VI.," which came from
his 'prentice hand, connected in some way, we do not know exactly what,
with a drama by an elder contemporary upon the same subject. There are
traces in contemporary satirical literature of a "Hamlet" which had been
performed as early as 1589, or possibly two years earlier. It is
remarkable that in the first edition of Shakespeare's "Hamlet" (1603)
Polonius is called Corambis, and Reynaldo, Montano; in which latter
names we may safely assume that we have relics of the old play; and,
although I am sure that in this edition of 1603 we have merely a
mutilated and patched-up version, surreptitiously obtained, and printed
in headlong haste, of the perfected play (in which opinion I differ from
some English scholars, whose learning and judgment I respect, but to
whom I would hold myself ready to prove, under forfeit, to their
satisfaction the correctness of my view); there are also in this
mutilated 1603 edition passages which not only are manifestly not what
Shakespeare wrote, but not even a mutilated form of what he wrote. They
are probably taken from the older play to supply the place of passages
of the new play which could not be obtained in time for the hasty
publication of this pirated edition of Shakespeare's tragedy. Remark,
here, in this hasty and surreptitious edition, evidence of the great
impression suddenly made by Shakespeare's "Hamlet." On its production it
became at once so popular that a piratical publisher was at the trouble
and expense of getting as much of the original as he could by unfair
means, and vamping this up with inferior and older matter to meet the
popular demand for reading copies. There is evidence of a like success
of "King Lear." Since the time when these plays were produced there has
been, we are called upon to believe, a great elevation of general
intelligence, and there surely has been a great diffusion of knowledge;
and yet it may be safely remarked that "Saratoga" and "Pique" and "The
Golden Age," which ran their hundred nights and more, are not quite
equal to "Hamlet" or to "King Lear," which, even with all their success,
did not run anything like a hundred nights; and we may as safely believe
that if "Hamlet" or "King Lear" were produced for the first time this
winter in New York or in London, there would not be such a great and
sudden demand for copies that extraordinary means would be taken by
publishers to supply it. This superiority of the general public taste in
dramatic literature during the Elizabethan era is one of the remarkable
phenomena in literary history; and it is one that remains unaccounted
for, and is, I think, altogether inexplicable, except upon the
assumption that theatres nowadays rely for their support upon a public
of low intellectual grade, and a taste for gross luxury and material
splendor.

In reading "Hamlet" there is little opportunity of comparing it
instructively with any of its predecessors. Its principal personage is
entirely unlike any other created by Shakespeare. The play is all
Hamlet: the other personages are mere occasions for his presence and
means of his development. But Polonius is something the same kind of
man as old Capulet in "Romeo and Juliet;" and although there were
opportunities enough for the noble Veronese father to utter
sententiously the knowledge of the world which he had gained by living
in it, see how comparatively meagre and superficial his "wise saws" are
compared with the counsel that Polonius gives to his son and to his
daughter, and to the King and Queen; although Polonius, with all his
sagacity, is garrulous and a bore; in Hamlet's words, a tedious old
fool. As to Hamlet's character, Shakespeare did not mean it to be
altogether admirable or otherwise, but simply to be Hamlet--a perfectly
natural and not very uncommon man, although he expresses natural and not
uncommon feelings with the marvellous utterance of the great master of
dramatic poetry. And Hamlet's character is not altogether admirable; but
it is therefore none the less, but probably the more, deeply
interesting. How closely packed the play is with profound truths of life
philosophy is shown by the fact that it has contributed not only very
much more--four or five times more--than any other poem of similar
length to the storehouse of adage and familiar phrase, but at least
twice as much as any other of Shakespeare's plays. I know two boys who,
going to see the play for the first time, some years before the
appearance of a like story in the newspapers, came home and did
actually, in the innocence of their hearts, qualify the great admiration
they expressed for it by adding, "but how full it is of quotations." In
fact, about one eighth of this long play has become so familiar to the
world that it is in common use, and is recognized as the best expression
known of the thoughts that it embodies. This, however, is not an
absolute test of excellence, for it is remarkable that "King Lear" is
very much behind it, and also behind "Othello," in this respect; and
indeed there are several plays, including "Macbeth," "Julius Caesar,"
"Henry IV.," "As You Like It," and "The Merchant of Venice," which are
richer than "King Lear" in passages familiarly quoted; and yet as to the
superiority of "King Lear" to the other plays I think there can be no
doubt. It is the greatest tragedy, the greatest dramatic poem, the
greatest book, ever written; so great is it, in fact, so vast in its
style, so lofty in its ideal, that to those who have reflected upon it
and justly apprehended it, it has become unplayable. As well attempt to
score the music of the spheres, or to paint "the fat weed that roots
itself in ease on Lethe wharf." In "King Lear" there is a personage who
may be very instructively compared with others of the same kind by the
student of Shakespeare's mental development. This is the Fool.
Shakespeare's fools or clowns (such as those in "Love's Labor's Lost"
and in "Hamlet") are among the most remarkable evidences of his ability
to make anything serve as the occasion and the mouthpiece of his wit and
his wisdom. He did not make the character; he found it on the stage, and
a favorite with a considerable part of the play-goers. It was, however,
as he found it, a very coarse character, rude as well as gross in
speech, and given to practical joking. He relieved it of all the
rudeness, if not of all the grossness, and reformed the joking
altogether; but he also filled the Fool's jesting with sententious
satire, and while preserving the low-comedy style of the character,
brought it into keeping with a lofty and even a tragic view of life. In
"King Lear" the Fool rises into heroic proportions, and becomes a sort
of conscience, or second thought, to Lear. Compared even with Touchstone
he is very much more elevated, and shows not less than Hamlet, or than
Lear himself, the grand development of Shakespeare's mind at this period
of its maturity. In the representation of Shakespeare's plays there has
been no greater affront to common sense than the usual presentation of
this Fool upon the stage as a boy, except the putting a pretty woman
into the part, dressed in such a way as to captivate the eye and divert
the attention by the beauty of her figure. It is disturbing enough to
see Ariel, sexless, but, like the angels, rather masculine than
feminine, represented by a woman dressed below the waist in an inverted
gauze saucer, and above the waist in a perverted gauze nothing; but to
see Lear's Fool thus unbedecked is more amazing than Bottom's brutal
translation was to his fellow actors. This Fool is a man of middle age,
one who has watched the world and grown sad over it. His jesting has a
touch of heart-break in it which is prevented from becoming pathetic
only by the cynicism which pertains partly to his personal character and
partly to his office. He and Kent are about of an age--Kent, who when
asked his age, as he comes back disguised to his old master, says, "Not
so young as to love a woman for her singing, nor so old as to dote on
her for anything; I have years on my back forty-eight"--a speech which
contains one of the finest of Shakespeare's minor touches of
worldly-wise character drawing. The German artist Retsch in his fine
outline illustrations of this play has conceived this Fool with fine
appreciation of Shakespeare's meaning. He makes him a mature man, with a
wan face and a sad, eager eye. The misrepresentation of the character
has its origin in Lear's calling the Fool "boy"--a term partly of
endearment and partly of patronage, which has been so used in all
countries and in all times. A similar misunderstanding of a similar word
_fool_, which Lear touchingly applies to Cordelia in the last
scene--"and my poor fool is hanged"--caused the misapprehension until of
late years[G] that Lear's court Fool was hanged--although why Edmund's
creatures should have been at the trouble in the stress of their
disaster to hang a Fool it would puzzle any one to tell.

"Othello" bears throughout the marks of the same maturity of intellect,
and the same mastery of dramatic effect, that appear in "Hamlet" and in
"King Lear"; but from the nature of its subject it is not so profoundly
thoughtful as the others. It is a drama of action, which "Hamlet" is not
in a high degree; and although a grand example of the imaginative
dramatic style, it has the distinction of being the most actable of all
Shakespeare's tragedies. It is difficult to conceive any age or any
country in which "Othello" would not be an impressive and a welcome play
to any intelligent audience. Highly poetical in its treatment, it is
intensely real in its interest; and it must continue so until there is a
radical change in human nature.

In the first of these articles I proposed to analyze and compare the
jealousy of Othello, Claudio, and Leontes; but I have abandoned the
design, partly because I find that it would require another article in
itself, and partly because it would necessarily lead me into a
psychological and physiological discussion which would hardly be in
keeping with the purpose with which I am now writing, which is merely to
offer such guidance and such help as I can give to intelligent and
somewhat inexperienced readers of Shakespeare. But I will remark that
Othello's jealousy is man's jealousy (so called) raised to the most
intense power by the race and the social position of the person who is
its subject. The feeling in man and that in woman, called jealousy, are
quite different in origin and in nature, although they have the same
name. In woman the feeling arises from a supposed slight of her person,
the _spretae injuria formae_ of Virgil, to which he attributes Juno's
enmity to Troy; and however it may be sentimentally developed, it has
this for its spring and its foundation. But a man, unless he is the
weakest of all coxcombs, and unworthy to wear his beard, does not
trouble himself because a woman admires another man's person more than
his own. His feeling has its origin in the motherhood of woman, a
recognition of which is latent in all social arrangements touching the
sex, and in all man's feeling toward her. Man's jealousy is a mingled
feeling of resentment of personal disloyalty, and of grief at unchastity
on the part of the woman that he loves. Man is jealous much in the same
sense in which it is said, "The Lord thy God is a jealous God"; which
saying, indeed, is a consequence of the anthropomorphic conception of
the Deity, notwithstanding the exclusion from it of the idea of sex. But
it is impossible to conceive of such a feeling as feminine jealousy
being referred to in the passage in the second commandment. The
"jealousy" of Othello and Leontes, and of Claudio, will be found on
examination to be at bottom the same. In Claudio it is correct,
gentlemanly, princely, and somewhat weak; in Leontes it is morbid,
unreasonable, hard, and cruel; in Othello it is perfectly pure in its
quality, and has in it quite as much of tenderness and grief as of wrath
and indignation; and it rages with all the fierceness of his half-savage
nature. The passion in him becomes heroic, colossal; but it is perfect
in its nature and in its proportions, and from the point to which he has
been brought by Iago, perfectly justifiable. Hence it is that it is so
respected by women. Nothing was more remarkable at Salvini's admirable
performance of Othello than the acquiescence of all his female auditors
in the fate of Desdemona. They were sorry for the poor girl, to be sure;
but they seemed to think that Desdemonas were made to be the victims of
Othellos, and that a man who could love in that fashion and be jealous
in that style of exalted fury was rather to be pitied and admired when
he smothered a woman on a misunderstanding. She should not have teased
him so to take back Cassio; and what could she have expected when she
was so careless about the handkerchief and told such lies about it! It
is somewhat unpleasant to be smothered, to be sure, but all the same
she ought to be content and happy to be the object of such love and the
occasion of such jealousy. They mourned far more over his fate than over
hers. This representation of manly jealousy, so elemental and simple,
and yet so stupendous, is one of Shakespeare's masterpieces. I mean not
merely in its verbal expression, but in its characteristic conception of
the masculine form of the passion. Compare it with the jealousy of any
of his women--of Adriana, of Julia, of Cleopatra, of Imogen, of
Regan--and see how different it is in kind; I will not say in degree;
for Shakespeare has not exhibited woman as highly deformed by this
passion; that he left for inferior dramatists, with whom it is a
favorite subject.

In two of these tragedies we have Shakespeare's most elaborate and, so
to speak, admirable representations of villany: Edmund in "King Lear"
and Iago in "Othello." These vile creations cannot, however, be justly
regarded as the fruit of a lower view of human nature consequent upon a
longer acquaintance with it. They were merely required by the exigencies
of his plots; and being required, he made them as it was in him to do.
For in nothing is his superiority more greatly manifested than in the
fact that monsters of baseness, or even thoroughly base men, figure so
rarely among his _dramatis personae_. They are common with inferior
dramatists and writers of prose fiction, whose ruder hands need them as
convenient motive powers and as vehicles of the expression of a lower
view of human nature. Not so with him. He has weak and erring men--men
who are misled by their passions, ambition, revenge, selfish lust, or
what not; but Iago, Edmund, and the Duke in "Measure for Measure" are
almost all his characters of their kind. In "Richard III." he merely
painted a highly  historical portrait; and Parolles, in "All's
Well that Ends Well," and Iachimo, in "Cymbeline," do not rise to the
dignity of even third-rate personages. Iago, it need hardly be said, is
the most perfect of all his creatures in this kind, and indeed he is the
most admirably detestable and infamous character in all literature.
Edmund is equally base and cruel; but compared with Iago he is a coarse,
low, brutal, and rabid animal. In Iago all the craft and venom of which
the human soul is capable is united with an intellectual subtlety which
seems to reach the limit of imagination or conception. There are some
who see in the making the bastard son in "Lear" the monster of
ingratitude and villany and the legitimate a model of all the manly and
filial virtues an evidence of Shakespeare's judgment and discrimination.
But this is one of those fond and over-subtle misapprehensions from
which Shakespeare has suffered in not a few instances, even at the hands
of critics of reputation. It suited Shakespeare's plot that the villain
should be the bastard; that is all; and Lear's legitimate daughters
Goneril and Regan are as base, as bad, and as cruelly ungrateful as
Gloucester's illegitimate son. Shakespeare knew human nature too well,
and handled it with too just and impartial a hand, to let the question
of legitimacy influence him in one way or the other. In "King John" we
have, on the contrary, the mean-souled Robert Faulconbridge and his
gallant and chivalrous bastard brother Philip.

About the same time, or if not in the same time, perhaps in the same
year which saw the production of "King Lear," "Macbeth" was written. But
its date is not certain within four or five years. It was surely written
before 1610, in which year a contemporary diary records its performance
on the 20th of April. The Cambridge editors, in their annotated edition
of this play, in the "Clarendon Press" series, prefer the later date;
but notwithstanding my great respect for their judgment, I hold to my
conclusion for the earlier, for the reasons given in my own edition. The
question has not in itself much pertinence to our present purpose, as
there is no doubt that the tragedy was produced in this period, and its
general style, both of thought and versification, is that of Shakespeare
in its fullest development and vigor. But with the question of date
there is involved another of great interest to the thoughtful
reader--that of mixed authorship. In the introductory essay to my
edition of this play (published in 1861) attention was directed to the
internal evidence that it was hastily written and left unfinished.[H]
Subsequent editors and critics, notably the Cambridge editors and the
Rev. F. G. Fleay, in his "Shakespearian Manual," starting from this
view, have gone so far as to say that "Macbeth," as we have it, is not
all Shakespeare's, but in part the work of Thomas Middleton, a second or
third-rate playwright contemporary with Shakespeare, who wrote a play,
called "The Witch," which is plainly an imitation of the supernatural
scenes in this tragedy. The Cambridge editors believe that Middleton was
permitted to supply certain scenes at the time of the writing of
Macbeth: Mr. Fleay, that Middleton cut down and patched up Shakespeare's
perfected work, adding much inferior matter of his own, and that he did
this being engaged to alter the play for stage purposes. The latter
opinion I must reject, notwithstanding Mr. Fleay's minute, elaborate,
and often specious argument; but the opinion of the Cambridge editors
seems to me to a certain extent sound. I cannot, however, go to the
length which they do in rejecting parts of this play as not being
Shakespeare's work. This study of Shakespeare's style and of what is not
his work at a certain period of his life being directly to our purpose,
let us examine the tragedy for traces of his hand and of another.

And first let the reader turn to Scene 5 of Act III., which consists
almost entirely of a long speech by Hecate, beginning:

   Have I not reason, beldames as you are,
   Saucy, and overbold? How did you dare
   To trade and traffic with Macbeth
   In riddles and affairs of death:
   And I, the mistress of your charms,
   The close contriver of all harms,
   Was never called to bear my part,
   Or show the glory of our art?

This speech is surely not of Shakespeare's writing. Its being in
octosyllabic rhyme is not against it, however; although he abandoned
rhyme almost altogether at or before this period. The fact of the
business of the scene being supernatural would account for its form. But
it is mere rhyme; little more than an unmeaning jingle of verses. Any
journeyman at versemaking would write such stuff. Read the speech
through, and then think of the writer of "Hamlet," and "Lear," and
"Othello," producing such a weak wash of words at the same time when he
was writing those tragedies. And even turn back and compare it with the
rhyming speeches of his other supernatural personages, of Puck and
Titana and Oberon in "A Midsummer Night's Dream," which he wrote at
least ten or twelve years earlier, and you will see that it is not only
so inferior, but so unlike his undoubted work that it must be rejected.
Turn next to Scene 3 of Act II., and read the speeches of the Porter.
Long ago Coleridge said of these, "This low soliloquy of the Porter and
his few speeches afterward I believe to have been written for the mob by
some other hand." That they were written for the mob is nothing against
them as Shakespeare's. Shakespeare wrote for the mob. He made a point of
putting in something for the groundlings[I] in every play that he wrote.
But with what a mighty hand he did it! so that those who have since then
sat in the highest seats in the world's theatre have laughed, and
pondered as they laughed. "Lear" is notably free from this element; but
even in the philosophical "Hamlet" we have the much elaborated scene of
the Gravediggers, which was written only to please Coleridge's "mob."[J]
But let the reader now compare these Porter's speeches in "Macbeth" with
those of the Gravediggers in "Hamlet," and if he is one who can hope to
appreciate Shakespeare at all, he will at this stage of his study see at
once that although both are low-comedy, technically speaking, the former
are low-lived, mean, thoughtless, without any other significance than
that of the surface meaning of the poor, gross language in which they
are written; while the latter, although, far more laughable even to the
most uncultivated hearer, are pregnant with thought and suggestion.
There can be no question that these speeches in "Macbeth" were written
by some other hand than Shakespeare's.

Having now satisfied ourselves that some part of "Macbeth" is not
Shakespeare's (and I began with those so manifestly spurious passages to
establish that point clearly and easily in the reader's apprehension),
"we are in a proper mood of mind to consider the objections that have
been made by the Cambridge editors to other parts of the tragedy. The
whole second scene of Act I. is regarded as spurious because of
"slovenly metre," too slovenly for him even when he is most careless;
"bombastic phraseology," too bombastic for him even when he is most so;
also because he had too much good sense to send a severely wounded
soldier with the news of a victory. I cannot reject this scene for these
reasons. The question of metre and style is one of judgment; and the one
seems to me not more irregular and careless, and the other not more
tumid, than Shakespeare is in passages undoubtedly of his writing; while
there is a certain flavor of language in the scene and a certain roll of
the words upon the tongue which are his peculiar traits and tricks of
style. The point as to the wounded soldier seems to me a manifest
misapprehension. He is not sent as a messenger. Nothing in the text or
in the stage directions of the original edition gives even color to such
an opinion. The first two scenes of this act prepare one's mind for the
tragedy and lay out its action; and they do so, as far as design is
concerned, with great skill. The first short scene announces the
supernatural character of the agencies at work; the next tells us of the
personages who are to figure in the action and the position in which
they are placed. In the second scene King Duncan and his suite, marching
toward the scene of conflict, and so near it that they are within
ear-shot, if not arrow-shot, _meet_ a wounded officer. He is not sent to
them. He is merely retiring from the field severely wounded--so severely
that he cannot remain long uncared for. The stage direction of the folio
is "Alarum within," which means (as will be found by examining other
plays) that the sound of drums, trumpets, and the conflict of arms is
heard. Then, "Enter King, etc., etc., _meeting_ a bleeding Captaine."
The King, then, does not greet or regard him as a messenger, but
exclaims, "What bloody man is that?" and adds, "He _can_ report, as
_seemeth by his plight_, the condition of the revolt." Plainly this is
no messenger, but a mere wounded officer who leaves the field because,
as he says, his "gashes cry for help."

In Act IV., Sc. 1, this speech of the First Witch after the "Show of
Eight Kings," is plainly not Shakespeare's:

   Ay, sir, all this is so; but why
   Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
   Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites,
   And show the best of our delights.
   I'll charm the air to give a sound,
   While you perform your antic round,
   That this great king may kindly say
   Our duties did his welcome pay.

This is condemned by the Cambridge editors, and I agree entirely with
them. Moreover it seems to be manifestly from the same hand as Hecate's
speech (Act III., Sc. 5), previously referred to. The style shows this,
and the motive is the same--the introduction of fairy business, dancing
and singing, which have nothing to do with the action of the tragedy,
and are quite foreign to the supernatural motive of it as indicated in
the witch scenes which have the mark of Shakespeare's hand.

In Act IV., Sc. 3, the passage in regard to touching for the King's
Evil, from "Enter a Doctor" to "full of grace," was, we may be pretty
sure, an interpolation previous to a representation at court, as the
Cambridge editors suggest, and it is probably not Shakespeare's; but I
would not undertake to say so positively. The same editors say they
"have doubts about the second scene of Act V." I notice this not merely
to express my surprise at it, but to let the reader see how difficult it
is to arrive at a general consent upon such points which are merely
matters of judgment. To me this scene is unmistakably Shakespeare's. Who
else could have written this passage, not only for its excellence but
for its peculiarity?

   _Caithness._--Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies:
   Some say he's mad; others, that lesser hate him,
   Do call it valiant fury; but for certain
   _He cannot buckle his distempered cause
   Within the belt of rule._

   _Angus._--                Now does he feel
   _His secret murders sticking on his hands_;
   Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;
   Those he commands move only in command,
   Nothing in love; _now does he feel his title
   Hang loose about him like a giant's robe
   Upon a dwarfish thief_.

I am sure that I should have suspected those lines to be Shakespeare's
if I had first met them without a name, in a nameless book. Still more
surprising is it to me to find these editors saying that in Act V., Sc.
5, lines 47-50 are "singularly weak." Here they are:

   If this which he avouches does appear,
   There is no flying hence or tarrying here.
   I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun,
   And wish the estate of the world were now undone.

The first two have no particular character, nor need they have any, as
they merely introduce the last two, which contain an utterance of blank
despair and desolation which seems to me more expressive than any other
that I ever read.

The last passage of the play, that after line 34, when Macbeth and
Macduff go off fighting, and Macbeth is killed, are probably, as the
Cambridge editors suggest, by another hand than Shakespeare's. Their
tameness and their constrained rhythm are not Shakespearian work,
particularly at this period of his life, and in the writing of such a
scene. "Nor would he," as the Cambridge editors say, "have drawn away
the veil which with his fine tact he had dropped over her [Lady
Macbeth's] fate by telling us that she had taken off her life 'by self,
and violent hands.'"

The person who wrote these un-Shakespearian passages was probably
Middleton. Shakespeare, writing the tragedy in haste for an occasion,
received a little help, according to the fashion of the time, from
another playwright; and the latter having imitated the supernatural
poets of this play in one of his own, the players or managers afterward
introduced from that play songs by him--"Music and a song, Come away,
come away," Act III., Sc. 5, and "Music and a song, Black spirits,"
etc., Act IV., Sc. 1. This was done to please the inferior part of the
audience. These songs and all this sort of operatic incantation are
entirely foreign to the supernatural motive of the tragedy as
Shakespeare conceived it. And I will here remark that the usual
performance of "Macbeth" with "a chorus" and "all Locke's music" is a
revolting absurdity.

My next paper will close this series with an examination of some of
Shakespeare's least known dramas.

                                        RICHARD GRANT WHITE.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote G: Since 1854.]

[Footnote H: For the convenience of readers to whom my edition is not
accessible I quote the following passage:

     "I am more inclined to this opinion from the indications which the
     play itself affords that it was produced upon an emergency. It
     exhibits throughout the hasty execution of a grand and clearly
     conceived design. But the haste is that of a master of his art,
     who, with conscious command of its resources, and in the frenzy of
     a grand inspiration, works out his conception to its minutest
     detail of essential form, leaving the work of surface finish for
     the occupation of cooler leisure. What the Sistine Madonna was to
     Raphael, it seems that 'Macbeth' was to Shakespeare--a magnificent
     impromptu; that kind of impromptu which results from the
     application of well-disciplined powers and rich stores of thought
     to a subject suggested by occasion. I am inclined to regard
     'Macbeth' as, for the most part, a specimen of Shakespeare's
     unelaborated, if not unfinished, writing, in the maturity and
     highest vitality of his genius. It abounds in instances of
     extremest compression and most daring ellipsis; while it exhibits
     in every scene a union of supreme dramatic and poetic power, and in
     almost every line an imperially irresponsible control of language.
     Hence, I think, its lack of formal completeness of versification in
     certain passages, and also of the imperfection in its text, the
     thought in which the compositors were not always able to follow and
     apprehend. The only authority for the text of 'Macbeth' is the
     folio of 1623, the apparent corruptions of which must be restored
     with a more than usually cautious hand. Without being multitudinous
     or confusing, they are sufficiently numerous and important to test
     severely the patience, acumen, and judgment of any editor."--_"The
     Works of William Shakespeare." Vol. X., P._ 424.]

[Footnote I: So called because they stood on the ground. The pit was
then a real pit, and its floor was the bare earth. There were no
benches. It was so in the French theatre until a much later period.
Hence the French name _parterre_ for the pit--_par terre_, upon the
ground. The name _parquet_, which is given to that part of a theatre in
America, is not French, and is no word at all, but a miserable affected
nonentity of sound.]

[Footnote J: The reader who cares to do so will find something upon this
point in my essay on Shakespeare's genius, "Life and Genius of
Shakespeare," pp. 280, 281.]




APPLIED SCIENCE.

A LOVE STORY IN TWO CHAPTERS.




CHAPTER I.

The village of Salmon Falls, in eastern New England, consists of a
number of mills and factories, the railroad station, a store or two, and
two hundred dwellings. Among these is the Denny mansion at the top of
the hill, where the road climbs up from the station and the river. It is
a large square house in the old colonial fashion, with two wings at the
rear and a garden in front.

It was a warm July morning when Mr. John Denny, mill owner and
proprietor of the homestead, had his chair rolled out to the porch, and
with some assistance from the servants, reached it on his crutch and sat
down in the shadow of the great house and out of the glare of the hot
sun. The vine-covered porch and the wide piazza opened directly upon the
garden and gave a full view of the road. Beyond there was an outlook
over the open fields, the mills, the stream, and the village in the
valley. By the road there was a stone wall and a wicker gate opening
upon the grassy sidewalk outside. A table had been laid with a white
cloth in the porch, and Mr. Denny sat by it and waited for the coming of
his daughter and breakfast. While he sat thus he turned over a number of
papers, and then, after a while, he began to talk to himself somewhat in
this wise:

"Expense! expense! expense! There seems no end to it. Bills coming in
every day, and every one larger than was expected. In my young days we
built a shop and knew to a dollar what it would cost. Now the estimates
are invariably short. The batting mill has already gone a thousand
dollars beyond the estimates, and the roof is but just put on. Even the
new chimney cost four dollars a foot more than was expected. Thank
Heaven, it is done, and that expense is over. Could I walk, I might look
after things and keep them within bounds. With my crushed foot I sit a
prisoner at home, and must leave all to Lawrence. It is fortunate that I
have one man I can trust with my affairs."

Just here Alma, his only child, a bright and wholesome girl of nineteen,
appeared from the house. Fairly educated, sensible, and affectionate,
but perhaps a trifle inexperienced by reason of her residence in this
quiet place, she is at once the pride and the light of the house.

"Good morning, father. Are you well this happy summer's day?"

The old gentleman kissed her fondly, and asked did she pass a quiet
night.

"Oh, yes. I didn't sleep much, that is all--for thinking."

"Thinking of what?"

"The expected guest. To-day is the 9th of July, and cousin Elmer comes."

"Ah, yes--Elmer Franklin. I had almost forgotten him."

"How does he look, father? Is his hair dark, or has he blue eyes? I
hardly know which I like best."

"I do not remember. I've not seen the boy since he was a mere child,
years ago. He has been at school since."

"He must be a man now. He is past twenty-one, and, as for school, why,
it's the Scientific School, and I'm sure men go to that."

"You seem greatly interested in this unknown relative, Alma."

"He is to be our guest, father--for a whole month. Come! Will you have
breakfast out here in the porch?"

"Yes, dear. It is quite comfortable here, and it will save the trouble
of moving."

Thereupon Alma entered the house in search of the breakfast, and a
moment after Mr. Lawrence Belford entered the garden at the street gate.
The son of an old friend of Mr. Denny's lamented wife, Mr. Belford had
been admitted to the house some months since as confidential clerk and
business man. He was a rather commonplace person, about thirty years of
age, and his education and manners were good if not remarkable. During
his residence with the Dennys he had found time to fall in love with
Alma, and they had been engaged--and with Mr. Denny's consent.

"Good morning, Lawrence. You're just in time for breakfast."

"Good morning, sir. Thank you, no. I have been to breakfast. I am just
up from the station."

"Seen anything of the railroad coach? The train is in, and it is time
for the coach to pass. Our guest may be in it."

"No, sir, but I saw the express coming up the hill with an extra large
load of baggage."

Just here Alma returned from the house bearing a large tray of plates
and breakfast things. The young people greet each other pleasantly, and
Alma proceeds to lay the table.

"Now for breakfast, father. Everything waits upon a good appetite. Will
you not join us, Lawrence?"

Mr. Belford replies that he has been to breakfast. Mr. Denny takes a cup
of coffee, and while sipping it remarks:

"How many more window-frames shall you require for the new mill,
Lawrence?"

"Ten more, sir. There is only a part of the fourth story unfinished."

"Alma, dear, do you remember how high we decided the new chimney was to
be? Yes, thank you, only two lumps of sugar. Thank you. You remember we
were talking about it when the Lawsons were here."

"Don't ask me. Ask Lawrence. I never can remember anything about such
matters."

Just at that moment the express pulled up at the gate, and there was a
knock. Alma rose hastily, and said:

"Oh! That must be Elmer."

She opened the gate, and young Mr. Elmer Franklin of New York entered. A
man to respect: an open, manly face, clear blue eyes, and a wiry,
compact, and vigorous frame. A man with a sound mind in a sound body. He
was dressed in a gray travelling suit, and had a knapsack strapped to
his back; in his hand a stout stick looking as if just cut from the
roadside, and at his side a field glass in a leather case. Immediately
behind him came a man bending under the load of an immense trunk. Alma
smiled her best, and the young stranger bowed gallantly.

"Mr. Denny, I presume?"

"Welcome, cousin Franklin," said Mr. Denny from his chair. "I knew you
at once, though it is years since any members of our families have met.
Pardon me if I do not rise. I'm an old man, and confined to my chair."

Mr. Franklin offered his hand and said politely:

"Thank you, sir, for your kind reception. I am greatly pleased to----
Hullo! Look out there, boys! That baggage is precious and fragile."

Another man appeared, and the two brought in trunks and boxes, bundles
and parcels, till there was quite a large heap of baggage piled up on
the grass. Alma and Lawrence were properly amazed at this array of
things portable, and Mr. Denny laid aside the breakfast things to look
at the rather remarkable display.

The young man seemed to think apologies essential.

"I do not wonder that you are alarmed. I do not often take such a load
of traps. I wrote you that my visit would be one of study and scientific
investigation, and I was obliged to bring my philosophical apparatus and
books with me."

"It is indeed a wonderful train of luggage for a man. One would have
thought you intended to bring a wife."

Then Mr. Denny bethought him of his duty, and he introduced his newly
found relative to his daughter and to Mr. Lawrence Belford, and then
bade him draw up to the table for breakfast. The young man made the
motions suitable for such an occasion, and then he turned to pay his
expressman. This trifling incident deserves record as happily
illustrating the young man's noble character.

"Thank you, sir. Breakfast will be a cheerful episode. I've a glorious
appetite, for I walked up from the station."

"There's a coach, Mr. Franklin, and it passes our door."

"I knew that, sir, but I preferred to walk and see the country. Fine
section of conglomerate you have in the road cutting just above the
station."

"Eh! What were you saying?"

"I said that I observed an interesting section of
conglomerate--water-worn pebbles, I should say--mingled with quartz
sand, on the roadside. I must have a run down there and a better look at
it after breakfast."

Mr. Denny was somewhat overwhelmed at this, and said doubtfully,

"Ah, yes, I remember--yes, exactly."

"Are you interested in geology, Miss Denny?"

Alma was rather confused, and tried hard to find the lump of sugar that
had melted away in her coffee, and said briefly,

"No. I didn't know that we had any in this part of the country."

Mr. Belford here felt called upon to say:

"My dear Alma, you forget yourself."

"Why will you take me up so sharply, Lawrence? I meant to say that I
didn't know we had any quartz conglomerate hereabouts."

Mr. Franklin smiled pleasantly, and remarked to himself:

"My dear Alma! That's significant. Wonder if he's spooney on her?"

Then he said aloud:

"The pursuit of science demands good dinners. Pardon me if I take some
more coffee."

"Yes, do--and these rolls. I made them myself--expressly for you."

"Thank you for both rolls and compliment."

Mr. Lawrence took up some of the papers from the table and began to read
them, and the others went on with their breakfast. Presently Mr. Denny
said:

"I presume, Mr. Franklin, that you are greatly interested in your school
studies?"

"Yes, sir. The pursuit of pure science is one of the most noble
employments that can tax the cultivated intellect."

"But you must confess that it is not very practical."

Before the young man could reply Alma spoke:

"Oh! cousin Elmer--I mean Mr. Franklin--excuse me. You haven't taken off
your knapsack."

Taking it off and throwing it behind him on the ground, he said:

"It's only my clothes."

"Clothes!" said Mr. Denny. "Then what is in the trunks?"

"My theodolite, cameras, chains, levels, telescopes, retorts, and no end
of scientific traps."

Alma, quite pleased:

"How interesting. Won't you open one of the trunks and let us see some
of the things?"

"With the greatest pleasure; but perhaps I'd better take them to my room
first."

"Anything you like, Elmer--Mr. Franklin, I mean. Our house is your
home."

Lawrence Belford here frowned and looked in an unpleasant manner for a
moment at the young stranger, who felt rather uncomfortable, though he
could scarcely say why. With apparent indifference he drew out a small
brass sounder, such as is used in telegraph offices, and began snapping
it in his fingers.

In his mind he said:

"Wonder if any of them are familiar with the great dot and line
alphabet!"

Alma heard the sounder and said eagerly:

"Oh! cou--Mr. Franklin, what is that?"

"It is a pocket sounder. Do you know the alphabet?"

"I should hope so."

"I beg pardon. I meant Morse's."

"Morse's?"

"Yes. Morse's alphabet."

"No. You must teach it to me."

Thereupon he moved the sounder slowly, giving a letter at a time, and
saying:

   "A - -- L - -- - - M -- -- A - --.

That's your name. Queer sound, isn't it?"

"Let me try. Perhaps I could do it."

"My dear Alma, your father is waiting. You had best remove the things."

"Yes, Lawrence. I'll call Mary."

The maid soon appeared, and the breakfast things were removed. Then Mr.
Denny drew Mr. Franklin's attention to the new factory chimney that
stood in plain sight from where they sat.

The young man promptly drew out his field glass, and, mounting one of
the steps of the porch, took a long look at the new shaft.

"Not quite plumb, is it?"

"Not plumb! What do you mean?"

"It is impossible," said Mr. Belford with some warmth.

"It looks so," said the young man with the glass still up at his eyes.

"I tell you it is impossible, sir. I built it myself, and I ought to
know."

"Oh! Beg pardon. You can take the glass and see for yourself."

"I need no glass. I took the stage down only yesterday, and I ought to
know."

"Allow me to take your glass, cousin Franklin," said Mr. Denny. He took
the glass, but quickly laid it down with a sigh.

"My eyes are old and weak, and the glass does not suit them. I am very
sorry to hear what you say. I would not have one of my chimneys out of
line for the world."

"I am sorry I said anything about it, sir. I did not know the chimney
belonged to you."

Alma was apparently distressed at the turn the conversation had taken,
and tried to lead it to other matters, but the old gentleman's mind was
disturbed, and he returned to the chimney.

"I designed it to be the tallest and finest chimney I ever erected, and
I hope it is all correct."

"It is, sir," said Mr. Belford. "Everything is correct to the very
capstones."

"It is my tallest chimney, Mr. Franklin--eighty-one feet and six inches;
and that is two feet taller than any chimney in the whole Salmon Falls
valley."

Mr. Franklin, in an innocent spirit of scientific inquiry, put his glass
to his eyes and examined the chimney again. Alma began to feel ill at
ease, and Lawrence Belford indulged in a muttered curse under his black
moustache.

"Eighty-one feet and six inches--the tallest chimney in the valley."

No one seemed to heed the old gentleman's remark, and presently Mr.
Franklin laid his field glass on the table, and taking out his brass
sounder, he idly moved it as if absently thinking of something.

Alma suddenly looked up with a little blush and a smile. Her eyes seemed
to say to him:

"I heard you call? What is it?"

He nodded pleasantly, and said, "Would you like to see some of my
traps?"

"Oh, yes. Do open one of your trunks."

Mr. Franklin took out a bunch of keys and went to one of the trunks. As
he did so he said to himself:

"Deuced bright girl! She learned my call in a flash. I must teach her
the whole alphabet, and then will have some tall fun and circumvent that
fool of a clerk."

This remark was applied to Mr. Belford, and was eminent for its touching
truth.

While the young people were opening the trunk, Mr. Denny and Mr. Belford
were engaged in examining the business papers spread on the table, and
for several minutes they paid no attention to things done and said
almost under their eyes.

Such a very strange trunk. Instead of clothing, it contained the most
singular assortment of scientific instruments. Each was carefully
secured so that no rude handling would harm it, and all shining and
glistening brilliantly as if kept with the most exquisite care. Mr.
Franklin unfastened a small brass telescope, mounted upon a stand, with
a compass, levels, plumb line, and weight attached.

"That's my theodolite. There's a tripod in one of my boxes. I'll get it
and mount it, and we'll have a shot at the chimney.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing! I'm going to measure it. Wouldn't you like to help me?"

"With all my heart. Tell me what to do."

"Presently. Wait till I've screwed things together; then I'll tell you
what to do. Oh! By the way, I must tell you an amusing episode that
happened at the railroad station while I was waiting for my luggage.
There was a young man sending off a message at the little telegraph
station, and I overheard the message and the comments of the operator."

Alma didn't appear to enjoy this incident.

"Not listening intentionally, you know. It was the telegraph I heard,
not the people."

Alma felt better.

"It was all by mere sounds, and it ran this way: 'The old fool is here
again.' That's what she said--the operator, I mean. 'To Isaac Abrams,
1,607 Barclay street, New York. I have secured the will. Foreclose the
mortgage and realize at once. Get two state rooms for the 25th.--L. B.'
That was the message, and it was so very strange I wrote it out in
my---- Oh! Beg pardon, Miss Denny. Are you ill?"

Alma's face had assumed a sudden pallor, and she seemed frightened and
ill at ease.

"'Tis nothing--really nothing! I shall be better presently."

Then, as if anxious to change the conversation, she began to ask rapid
questions about the theodolite and its uses.

Mr. Franklin was too well bred to notice anything, but he confessed to
himself that he had said something awkward, and, for the life of him, he
could not imagine what it might be. He replied briefly, and then went on
with his preparations for some time in silence, Alma meanwhile looking
on with the greatest interest. The theodolite having been put together,
Mr. Franklin opened another box and took out a wooden tripod, such as
are used to support such instruments. He also took out a fine steel
ribbon, or measuring tape, neatly wound up on a reel.

"You shall carry that, Miss Denny, and I'll shoulder the theodolite."

"Wait till I get my hat and the sun umbrella."

"To be sure; it will be warm in the fields."

Alma was soon arrayed in a dainty chip. At least she called it a chip,
and the historian can do naught but repeat her language. Besides this,
it was not bigger than a chip, and it looked very pretty tied under her
chin. Over her head she carried its real protection, an immense Japanese
paper umbrella, light, airy, and generous.

"Where are you going, Alma?" said Mr. Denny.

"Oh! only to the fields for a little walk. We'll be back presently."

The confidential clerk thought it strange that the daughter of the
house should be so free with the stranger. But the young people were
distant cousins, and it wouldn't have been polite in him to have
objected to the little walk.

So the two, under the friendly shade of the big paper umbrella, went out
to see the new chimney, while Mr. Denny and the confidential clerk staid
behind to talk business.

The new chimney stood at the southeast corner of the great four-story
mill, and close beside the little brick engine house. Alma led the
youthful son of science out of the gate, down the road a few rods, and
then they passed a stile, and took the winding path that straggled over
the pastures to the mill.

Of course they talked volubly. This being the stern and prosy record of
applied science, it becomes us not to report the chatterings of these
two till they reached the base of the vast brick chimney, towering
nearly eighty feet into the air above them. Its long shadow lay like a
stiffened snake upon the fields, and Elmer, observing it, said:

"Good! We can use the shadow, too, and have double proof."

"How?" said the bright one, in a beautiful spirit of inquiry.

"If an upright stick, a foot long, casts a shadow three feet long, the
shadow of another stick beside it, at the same time, is proportionally
long."

"I knew that before. That isn't very high science."

"Why did you say 'how'?"

"Because I didn't think. Because I was a goose."

"Such terms are not choice, and are devoid of truth. Here! stern duty
calls. Do you hold one end of the tape at the foot of the chimney, and
I'll measure off the base line of our triangle."

Alma was charmed to be of use, and sat on a stone with the brass ring of
the tape on her ring finger next her engagement ring, and her hand flat
against the first course of bricks. Trifles sometimes hint great
events. Little did she think that the plain brass ring on her finger was
the hard truth of science that should shiver her gold ring to fragments
and pale its sparkling diamond. Being a wholesome creature, and not
given to romance, she thought nothing about it, which was wise. Her
cousin, the knight of the theodolite, set his instrument upright upon
the grass, and then ran the measuring line out to its full length.

"All right! Let the tape go."

Alma took off the brass ring, and the steel ribbon ran like a glittering
snake through the grass, and she slowly followed it and joined her
knight.

"Once more, please. Hold the ring on this bit of a stake that I've set
up in the ground."

Alma, like a good girl, did as she was bid, and the ribbon ran out again
to its full length. Another stake was set up, and the theodolite was
placed in position and a sight obtained at the top of the tall chimney.
A little figuring in a note-book, and then the son of high science
quietly remarked:

"Seventy-six feet four inches--short five feet two inches."

Just here several urchins of an inquiring turn of mind drew near and
began to make infantile comments, and asked with charming freedom if it
was circus.

"No!" said Alma, from under her paper tent. "No! Run away, children, run
away."

It was too warm for so much exertion, and they wouldn't move.

"Oh! never mind them. They don't trouble me; and if it amuses them, it's
so much clear gain."

"They are some of the factory children, and I thought they might bother
you."

"Inelegant, but thoughtful." He didn't say so. He only thought it, which
was quite as well.

During this little episode the impressive facts that all this scientific
exertion had brought out concerning the chimney were lost upon Alma. It
was small consequence. She knew it well enough before night.

Now for the shadow by way of proof. The theodolite, paper umbrella, and
admiring crowd of children trotted severally and collectively over the
grass till they reached the chimney again.

"The tape-measure, Alma. You hold the ring, and I'll unreel the string."

It was surprising how quickly these two made each other's acquaintance.
By the time the long shadow was measured, a stake set up, and the two
shadows compared, they seemed to have known each other for weeks. Such
is the surprising effect of pure science when applied to love.

Had it come to this already? She was engaged to the confidential, the
chimney-builder. His ring glittered on her finger. True--all of it!

See them sauntering slowly (the thermometer at 87 deg.) homeward under
the friendly shade of an oiled paper umbrella. They are indeed good
friends already. They enter the house together, and the cheerful dinner
bell greets their ears. She folds her oiled paper tent and he sets his
instrument up in a corner of the great shady hall. She leads the way to
the chamber that is to be his room during his stay, and then retires to
her own to prepare for the frugal noontide meal.

The exact truth records that the meal was not severely frugal. It was
otherwise, and so much nicer.

The entire family were assembled, and conversation was lively,
considering the weather. Near the close of the meal it grew suddenly
warm. The innocent son of science, proud of his accomplishments, made a
most incautious statement, and the result was peculiar.

"Oh, uncle, you were saying this morning that my science was not very
practical. I tried a bit of it on your chimney this morning, and what do
you think I found?"

"I'm sure I can't tell," said Mr. Denny.

"I measured it, and it is exactly seventy-six feet, four inches high."

If he had dropped a can of nitro-glycerin under the table, the effect
couldn't have been more startling. Mr. Lawrence Belford dropped his
fruit knife with a ruinous rattle, his face assumed the color of frosted
cake (the frosting, to be exact), and he seemed thoroughly frightened.
Mr. Denny looked surprised, and said,

"What?"

Alma said nothing, but fished for the sugar in her strawberries and
cream.

"What did you say, Mr. Franklin?"

"I said that I measured the new chimney, just for the fun of the thing,
and found that it is exactly seventy-six feet, four inches high."

"It's an abominable lie."

"Lawrence!" said Alma, with an appealing glance.

"Are you sure, Mr. Franklin? Have you not made some mistake?"

"You are utterly mistaken, Mr. Franklin. I measured that chimney with a
line from the top, and I know your statement is entirely incorrect."

"I hope so," said the old gentleman.

"It is so, sir," added Mr. Belford; and then, waxing bolder, he said,
"How could this young person, just from school, know anything of such
matters? Did he build a staging, or did he climb up the inside like a
chimney sweep?"

Young Mr. Franklin saw that he had in some innocent fashion started a
most disagreeable subject. Why Mr. Denny should be so disturbed and Mr.
Belford so angry was past his comprehension. At the same time Mr.
Belford's language was offensive, and he replied with some spirit:

"There is no need to climb the chimney, or use a line. It is a trifling
affair to ascertain the height of any building with a theodolite, as you
probably know."

"I tell you, sir, it is false--utterly false. Besides, you have made
some mistake in the figures. You--you--but I've no patience with such
boy's play. It's only fit for school children."

"Lawrence," said Alma, "you are unkind. I'm sure we meant no harm. I
helped Mr. Franklin, and I'm sure he's right; besides, we measured the
chimney by its shadow, and both statements were alike."

"Oh, if you've turned against me, I've nothing more to say."

Mr. Denny meanwhile seemed lost in deep study, and he hardly heeded what
was going on.

"What can that boy know about such things? I tell you, it's----"

"It seems to me, Mr. Belford, you are unnecessarily excited," said Mr.
Denny. "Mr. Franklin is a much younger man than you, but he showed a
knowledge of this matter, and if his figures are correct----"

"They are, sir," said Elmer warmly. "I can show you the base line, and
the theodolite is still at the same angle. Alma saw me measure the base,
and she can tell you its length. There are the figures in my note-book."

Mr. Denny took the note-book and examined the figuring out of this
problem, and Elmer went to the hall for his instrument. He returned with
the theodolite still secured at the angle at which the sight had been
taken. As he laid the instrument on the dining table, he said:

"I am very sorry, uncle, that I did anything about this matter. It was
done in mere sport, and I wish I had said nothing concerning it. I would
not had not Mr. Belford used the language he did."

Mr. Denny ran his eye over the figures in the book, and then, with a
pained expression, he said briefly,

"Everything seems to be correct."

"Damnation! I'll break his head for him, the intermeddling fool." This
language was not actually used by Mr. Belford, but he thought as much.
His eyes flashed, and he clenched his fists under the table. Alma's
presence alone restrained him from something more violent. He appeared
calm, but inwardly he was angry. This unexpected announcement
concerning the chimney he had built cast a heavy shadow over him, and
his conscience awoke with a sudden smart.

Alma was greatly disturbed, and ready to cry for shame and vexation. She
did not, for she felt sure this was only the beginning of a new trouble,
and she well knew that heavy sorrows had already invaded the house. They
needed no more.

Mr. Franklin glanced from one to another in alarm. He saw that he was
treading upon uncertain ground, and he wisely held his peace. After a
brief and awkward pause, Mr. Belford rose, and pleading the calls of
business, went out, and the unhappy interview came to an end.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a strange room. Its belongings stranger still. A large square
chamber, with windows on three sides and a door and a fireplace on the
other. Just now the fireplace had fallen from its high estate and had
become a catch-all for the wrecks of much unpacking. There was a small
single bed, two chairs, and an indefinite number of tables. Impossible
to say how many, for they were half obscured by numberless things
scientific: microscopes, a retort, small furnace, two cameras, galvanic
battery, coils of wire and rubber tubing, magic lantern, books,
photographs, and papers; on a small desk a confused pile of papers; on
the walls a great number of pictures and photographs.

The very den of a student of science. Hardly room to walk among the
wilderness of traps, boxes, and trunks. At the window, the young man,
just dressed, and taking a view of the mill and its new chimney.

"Gad! how mad the fellow was over my little measurements. Wonder what it
all means? The girl's in trouble, the father has a grief, and the
clerk--I can make nothing of him. What matter? My duty is with my books,
that I may pursue pure science. The moment things become practical I
drop 'em."

Then he turned and looked out of the next window.

"Fine view of the river. I must have another try at it with the camera."

He crossed the room, and standing in the bright morning sunshine, he
looked about to examine the other L that had been thrown out from the
back of the main building.

"That's Alma's room, and the next is the clerk's, the chimney man. The
window is open, and the place looks as dark as a cave. I've a mind to
light it up."

So saying he took a small hand mirror from a table near by. Holding it
in the full sunlight, he moved it slowly about till the dancing spot of
reflected light fell upon the open window and leaped in upon the
opposite wall of the room. The observer with steady hand moved the spot
of light about till he had probed the room, and found all it contained,
which was nothing save a bed and two chairs.

"Applied science reports the man is fit for treason, spoils, and that
sort of thing. He has no pictures. His room is a sleeping den. The man
is a----Hallo! Steady there!"

The door in the room opened, and the student of applied science turned
quickly away with his back to the wall beside his window. Cautiously
raising the mirror, he held it near the window in such a way that in it
he could see all that went on in the other room, without being himself
seen.

Suddenly he saw something in the glass. Some one appeared at the window,
looked out as if watching for something, and then withdrew into the bare
little sleeping room. Then the figure in the mirror went to the bed and
carefully turned all the clothes back. The student of science watched
the mirror intently. The figure bent over the uncovered mattress and
quietly opened the sacking and took something out. It sat down on the
edge of the disordered bed and proceeded to examine the box or bundle,
whatever it might be, that it had found in the bed.

Just here there was the sound of a distant door opening and closing. The
figure crouched low on the bed, as if fearing to be seen, and waited
till all was quiet again. Then it slowly opened the box or package, and
took out a folded paper. The student bent over the mirror with the
utmost interest. What did it mean? What would happen next? Nothing in
particular happened. The figure closed the box, returned it to its
hiding place in the bed, and then crept out of the range of reflected
vision.

Why should the confidential clerk hide papers in his bed? What was the
nature of the documents? A strange affair, certainly, but it did not
concern him, and perhaps he had better drop the subject. He turned to
his books and papers, and for an hour or more was too much occupied with
them to heed aught else.

Suddenly there was a brisk series of taps at his door, like this:

   -  - --  - - -- --  -  - --   --

"I'm here. Come in."

Alma, the bright one entered.

"What a room! Such disorder, Elmer."

"Yes. It is quite a comfortable den. I've unpacked everything, and--mind
your steps--feel quite at home--thank you."

"I should say as much. Do look at the dust. I must have Mary up here at
once."

"Madam, I never allow any female person to touch my traps. Mary may make
the bed, but she must not sweep, nor dust, nor touch anything."

"Oh! really. Then I'll go at once."

"Better not."

"Why?"

"Because I've many things to show----"

"Oh, Elmer! What is that--that queer thing on the table? May I look at
it?"

"That's my new camera."

"How stupid. I might have known that. Do you take pictures?"

"Photos? Yes. Will you sit?"

"Oh, dear, no. I hate photographs. It's so disagreeable to see oneself
staring with some impossible expression, and sitting in an impossible
palace, with a distant landscape and drapery curtains."

"Then I'll take a view for you. Find a seat somewhere while I rig
things. See those two people sitting on the little bridge that crosses
the race beyond the mill? I'll photograph them without their
permission."

Alma looked out of the window when Elmer had raised the curtain, but
declared she couldn't see anything.

"They are very far off. Take the field glass, and you'll see them."

Alma took the glass from the table, and looked out on the sunny
landscape.

"I see what you mean, but I can't make out who they are, even with the
glass. It's a man and a woman, and that's as much as I can see."

"You shall see them plain enough in a moment."

So saying, Elmer placed a long brass telescope upon a stand by the open
window, and through it he examined the couple on the bridge. Meanwhile
Alma gazed round the room and examined its strange contents with the
greatest interest.

The moment the focus of the glass was secured, Elmer hastily took the
little camera, and adjusting a slide in it from a table drawer, he
placed it before the telescope on the table and close to the eye hole.
Then, by throwing a black cloth over his head, he looked into it, turned
a screw or two, and in a moment had a negative of the distant couple.

"Aren't you almost ready?"

"In one moment, Alma. I must fix this first. I'll be right back."

So saying he took the slide from the little camera, and went out of the
room into a dark closet in the entry.

Alma waited patiently for a few moments, and then she took up the field
glass, and looked out of the window. Who could they be? They seemed to
be having a cosy time together; but beyond the fact that one figure was
a woman she could learn nothing. She wanted to take a look through the
telescope, but did not dare to move the little camera that stood before
it.

"Here's the picture," said Elmer as he entered the room.

Alma took the bit of glass he offered her, but declared she couldn't see
anything but a dirty spot on the glass.

"That's the negative. Let me copy it, and then I'll throw it up with the
stereopticon."

He selected another bit of glass from a box, and in a few minutes had it
prepared and the two put together and laid in the sun on the
window-seat.

"What's in that iron box, Elmer?"

"Nitrous oxide."

"The same thing that the dentists use?"

"Yes. Would you like to try a whiff? It's rather jolly, and will not
hurt you in the least."

Elmer caught up a bit of rubber pipe, secured one end to the iron chest
and inserted the other in a mouthpiece having the proper inhalation and
exhalation valves.

"Put that in your mouth for a moment."

Alma, with beautiful confidence, put the tube in her mouth, and in a
moment her pretty head fell back against the back of the chair in deep
sleep. With wonderful speed and skill Elmer rolled a larger camera that
stood in a corner out into the centre of the room, ran in a slide,
adjusted the focus, and before the brief slumber passed had a negative
of the sleeping one.

"Oh, how odd! What a queer sensation to feel yourself going and going,
off and off, till you don't know where you are!"

"It is rather queer. I've often taken the gas myself--just for fun. Now,
Alma, if you will let down the curtains, and close the shutters, and
make the room dark, I'll light the lantern and show you the picture."

Alma shut the blinds, drew down the curtains, and closed all the
shutters save one.

"Won't it be too dark?"

"No. It must be quite dark. You can stand here in the middle of the room
and look at that bit of bare wall between the windows. I left that space
clear for a screen."

Alma eagerly took her place, and said with a laugh:

"If this is the pursuit of pure science, it is very amusing. I'd like to
study science--in this way."

"Yes, it is rather interesting----"

"Oh, Elmer, it's pitch dark."

"Never mind. Stand perfectly still and watch the wall. There--there's
the spot of light. Now I'll run in the positive."

A round spot of white light fell on the unpapered wall, and then two
dusky shadows slid over it, vague, obscure, and gigantic.

"There are your people. Now I'll adjust the focus. There--look."

A heavy sob startled him.

"Oh! It's that hateful Alice Green!"

Elmer opened the door of the lantern, and the light streamed full upon
Alma. She was bathed in tears, and her shoulders, visible through her
light summer dress, shook with sobs.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing! Oh, it's--nothing--let me--go----"

With an impatient gesture she tried to brush the tears from her eyes,
and then, without a word, she hastily ran out of the room.

The student of pure science was surprised beyond measure. What had
happened? What new blunder had he committed? With all his deep study of
things material he was ignorant of things emotional and sentimental.
This exhibition of anger and grief in his pretty cousin utterly
disconcerted him. He did not know what to do, nor what to think, and he
stood in the glare of his lantern for a moment or two in deep thought.

Then he closed the lantern and turning round, examined the shadowy
picture thrown upon the wall. It represented a young man and a young
woman seated upon the wooden rail of the bridge in the open air, and in
most loving embrace. His arm was about her waist, and he was looking in
her face. His straw hat hid his features, but the face of the young
woman was turned toward the camera that had so perfectly mirrored them
both. She seemed to be a young and pretty girl in the more lowly walks
of life, and her lover seemed to be a gentleman. What a pity he hadn't
looked up! Who could he be? And she? Alma's remark plainly showed that
she at least knew the girl, and for some reason was hotly indignant with
her.

Thinking he had made trouble enough already, Elmer took one more good
look at the picture, and then prepared to destroy it. Something about
the young man's hat struck him as familiar. It was a panama hat, and had
two ribbons wound round it in a fanciful manner that was not exactly
conventional.

He silently opened a shutter, and the picture faded away. He drew up the
curtains and looked out on the bridge. The young couple had disappeared.
Poor innocents! They little knew how their pictures had been taken in
spite of themselves, and they little knew the tragic and terrible
consequences that were to flow from the stolen photograph so strangely
made. Elmer took the little slide from the lantern, and was on the point
of shivering it to fragments on the hearthstone, when he paused in deep
thought. Was it wise to destroy it? Had he not better preserve it?
Perhaps he could some day solve the mystery that hung about it, and find
out the cause of Alma's grief and anger. Perhaps he might help her; and
there came a softening about his heart that seemed both new and
wonderfully unscientific.

Shortly after this the dinner bell rang, and he went down to the
dining-room. Alma sent word that she had a severe headache and could not
appear. Mr. Belford was already there, and he looked at Mr. Franklin
with an expression that made the young man uncomfortable in spite of
himself. Mr. Denny was unusually thoughtful and silent, and conversation
between the younger men was not particularly brilliant or entertaining.
At last the dreary meal was finished. Mr. Belford rose first and went
out into the hall. Mr. Franklin followed him, and saw something that
quite took his breath away.

There lay the hat of the photograph, double ribbons and all. Mr. Belford
quietly took it up and put it on, and it fitted him perfectly. Elmer
stopped abruptly and looked at the man with the utmost interest. The
confidential, the chimney builder paid no attention, and quickly passed
on out of the front door.

"E. Franklin, you have made a discovery. The pursuit of pure science
never showed anything half so interesting as this. You had better raise
a cloud on the subject. Gad! It's cloudy enough already!"

This to himself as he slowly went up stairs to his room. Selecting a
pipe, he filled it, and finding a comfortable seat, he fired up and
prepared to examine mentally the events of the day.

"It was the confidential, making love to some village beauty, supposed
to be 'Green,' by name, if not by nature. Alma loves him. That's bad.
Perhaps she's engaged to him. Has she a ring? Yes--saw it the other day.
The affair is cloudy--and--Gad! Blessed if I don't keep that
lantern-slide! It may be of use some day. Come in."

This last was in response to a knock at the door. Mr. Belford entered,
panama hat with two ribbons in hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Franklin. I thought I might find you here.".

"Yes, I'm at leisure. What can I do for you? Smoke?"

"No; I can't to-day. The fact is, I've a bad tooth, and smoking troubles
it."

"Indeed? Let me see it. I'm a bit of a dentist."

"Are you? That's fortunate, for it aches sadly, and our nearest dentist
is five miles away."

"Sit right here by the window, where I can have a good light."

Mr. Belford, a physical coward, could not bear pain; and though he was
unwilling to be under obligations to one whom he considered a mere boy,
he sat down in the proffered chair, and opened his mouth dutifully.

"Ah, yes--_dentes sapentia_. It's quite gone. Shall I take it out for
you?"

"Will it be painful?"

"No. I'll give you nitrous oxide. Without it it might be very painful,
for the tooth is much broken down."

Mr. Belford hesitated. Had he better place himself so utterly at the
mercy of this young man?

"It will pass off in a moment, and leave no ill effects behind. You had
better take it."

"Well, I will; but make it very mild, for I am afraid of these
new-fangled notions."

"You need have no fear," said Elmer, bringing up his iron box of nitrous
oxide, and selecting a pair of forceps from the mass of instruments in
one of his trunks.

"It's very odd. It's the merest chance that I happened to have a pair of
forceps. Are you ready now? Put this tube in your mouth, and breathe
easily and naturally."

The patient leaned back in the chair, and the amateur stood silently
watching him.

"It's a fearful risk, but I'm going to try it. I succeeded with Alma,
and I fancy I can with this fool. He was a fool to run right into my
arms in this fashion. No wonder his wisdom tooth was rotten. I'll have
it out in a moment."

All this to himself. The patient closed his eyes, and fell into a deep
sleep.

"Take it strong. It will not hurt you, and I must keep you quiet till
the deed is done."

High science was to be brought to bear upon rascality, and he must move
cautiously and quickly. The instant the patient was unconscious, Elmer
bent over him and turned back his coat, and from the inside pocket he
drew forth a folded paper. He had caught a glimpse of it when he looked
in the man's mouth, and on the spur of the moment he had conceived and
put into practice this bold stroke of applied science. Making the man
comfortable, and giving him a little air with the gas, he opened the
paper and spread it wide open before a pile of books in the full
sunlight. The patient stirred uneasily. With a breathless motion Elmer
plied him with more gas, and he sighed softly and slumbered deeper than
ever. With a spring he reached the camera, rolled it up before the
paper, and set in a new slide. It copied the paper with terrible
certainty, and then, without reading it, Elmer folded the paper up again
and restored it to his patient's pocket.

The patient revived. He put his hand in his mouth. The tooth was still
there.

"Why, you didn't touch it?"

"No. I was delayed a bit. Take the gas again."

The man submitted, and inhaled more gas. At the instant he slumbered the
forceps were deftly plied and the tooth removed. Bathing the man's face
with water, the young dentist watched him closely till he revived again.

"Do you feel better?"

"Better! Why, I'm not hurt! Is it really out?"

"Yes. There it is in the washbowl."

"You did very well, young man. Excellently. I'm sure I'm much obliged."

"You're welcome," replied Mr. Franklin. "It was a trifling affair."

Repeating his thanks, the visitor put on his hat with its two ribbons
and retired.

For an hour or more the youthful son of science worked over his new
negatives, and then he quietly closed the shutters and lighted his
stereopticon. The first picture he threw upon the wall greatly pleased
him. With half-parted lips, a placid smile, and closed eyes, the
sleeping Alma lived in shadowy beauty before him.

"Queer such a charming girl should belong to such a fool!"

Not choice language for a son of pure-eyed science, but history is
history, and the truth must be told.

"Now for the paper."

He took Alma's stolen picture from the lantern, and inserted in its
place a positive copy of the paper he had captured from her lover.
Suddenly there flashed upon the wall a document of the most startling
and extraordinary character. He read it through several times before he
could bring himself to understand the peculiar nature of the important
discovery he had made. Long and earnestly he gazed upon the gigantic
writing on the wall, and then he slowly opened one of the shutters, and
the magic writing faded away in the rosy light of the setting sun.

A moment after, the tea-bell rang. This over, young Mr. Franklin said
he, must go out for his evening constitutional. He wished to be alone.
The events of the day, the discoveries he had made, and, more than all,
Alma's grief and silence at the supper-table, disturbed him. He wished
more air, more freedom to think over these things and to devise some
plan for future action.

Alma. What of her? Was he not growing to like her--perhaps love her? And
she was engaged to that--that--he could not think of him with patience.
The chimney, the two in the photo, and the strange paper: what did they
all mean? Why were both father and daughter in such evident distress? He
pondered these things as he walked through the shadowy lanes, and then,
about eight o'clock, he returned, in a measure composed and serene.

There was a light in the parlor, and he went in and found Alma alone.

"Oh, Elmer! I'm glad you've come. It's very lonely here. Father has
gone to bed quite ill, and Lawrence asked me to sit up till he
returned. He's gone down to the village on some business. I can't see
why he should. The stores are closed and the last train has gone."

She made a place for him on the sofa, and he sat down beside her. For
some time they talked indifferently upon various matters--the weather,
the heat of the day, and like trivialities.

Suddenly she turned upon him, and said, with ill-suppressed excitement:

"What did you do with it, Elmer?"

"Do with what?"

"The picture."

"Oh, yes--the lantern slide. I wish I had never made it. It's up stairs
in my room."

"You didn't know it was Alice Green?"

"No. How should I? I did not know who either of the people was till the
picture was thrown upon the wall."

"Do you know now--know both of them, I mean?"

"Yes--I think I do. One was Mr.----"

"Yes, Elmer, you may as well say it. It was Lawrence."

Elmer could think of nothing to say, and wisely said nothing. After a
brief pause Alma said slowly, as if talking to herself:

"It was a cruel thing to do."

"I did not mean to be cruel."

"Oh, my dear--cousin, don't think of it in that way. It was Lawrence who
was so cruel."

"Yes. It was not very gentlemanly; but perhaps he does not care for--for
this person."

"He does. The picture was only confirmation of what I had heard before.
I've done with him," she added in a sort of suppressed desperation. "I'm
going to break our engagement this very night. I know it will nearly
break my heart, and father will be very angry; but, Elmer, come nearer;
let me tell you about it. I'm afraid of him. He has such an evil eye,
and you remember the chimney--the day you came--I thought he would kill
you, he was so angry."

Evidently she was in sore trouble. Even her language was marked by doubt
and difficulty.

"Advise me, Elmer. Tell me what to do. I hardly know which way to turn,
and I'm so lonely. Father is busy every day, and I can't talk to him.
And Lawrence--I dare not trust him."

Here she began to cry softly, and hid her face in her handkerchief. The
son of science was perplexed. What should he do or say? All this was new
to him. That a young and pretty girl should appeal to him with such
earnestness disconcerted him, and he did not know how to act. A problem
in triangulation or knotty question in physics would have charmed him
and braced him up for any work. This was so new and so peculiar that he
said, "Don't cry, cousin," and repented it at once as a silly speech.

"I must. It does me good."

"Then I would."

Thereupon they both laughed heartily and felt better. He recovered his
wits at once.

"Do you think you really love him?"

The man of science is himself again.

"No, I don't."

"Then--well, it's hardly my place to say it."

"Then break the engagement. That's what you mean. I intend to do so;
but, Elmer, I wish you could be here with me."

"It would be impossible. Oh! I've an idea."

"Have you? There! I knew you would help me. You are so bright, Elmer,
and so kind----"

He nipped her enthusiasm in the bud.

"Do you think you could telegraph to me from your pocket?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know the letters now perfectly, and if you had your hand on an
armature, you could send off messages quickly?"

"Yes. You know I learned the alphabet in one day, and it's nearly a
week since you put up that line to my room. Think how we have talked
with it already. And you remember the tea table, when the Lawsons and
the Stebbens were here. Didn't I answer all your questions about Minna
Lawson while I was talking with her by tapping on the table with a
spoon?"

"Yes. So far so good; but now I'm going to try a most dangerous and
difficult piece of scientific work, and you must help me. My plan is for
you to keep in telegraphic communication with me while the interview
goes on. Then, if he is insulting or troublesome, you can call me."

"How bright of you, Elmer. If Lawrence had been half so good and kind
and bright--if he knew half as much--I might have loved him longer."

"Wait a bit, and I'll get the lines."

"May I go too?"

"Oh, yes; come."

The two went softly up the hall stairs, through the long entry to the L,
and into Elmer's room. They set the lamp on a table, and Elmer dragged
forth from the scientific confusion of the place a collection of
telegraphic apparatus of all kinds.

"There's the battery. That I'll keep here. There is the recording
instrument. That I'll keep here also. Now you want a small armature to
open and close the current. Wait a bit! I'd better make one."

Alma sat down on a box, and her new Lohengrin set to work with shears
and file to make something that would answer for an armature and still
be small enough to hide in the hand. Cutting off two small pieces of
insulated copper wire, he bound them together side by side at one end.
The loose ends he separated by crowding a bit of rubber between them,
and then with the file and his knife he removed a part of the insulating
covering till the bright copper showed at the tips of each wire.

"There! You can hide that in the pocket of your dress, or hold it in
your hand even. When you wish to close the circuit, pinch the wires, and
they will touch each other. When you withdraw the pressure the rubber
will push them apart."

Alma declared she could do it easily, and the armature having been
connected with the wires and the battery, they both prepared to go to
the parlor.

Down the stairs they crept, slowly unwinding two delicate coils of
insulated wire as they went, and pushing them back against the wall well
out of sight. When they came to the mats Alma lifted them up, and Elmer
laid the wires down, and then the mats covered them from sight.

"Now, you sit here, in a comfortable chair, and hide the wires in the
folds of your dress. I'll lead them off over the carpet behind you, and
unless the----Lawrence is brighter than I think he is, he'll not find
them."

These mysterious operations were hardly completed before the door bell
rang and Lawrence came in. He did not seem particularly pleased to find
Mr. Franklin sitting up with Alma, and the meeting was not very cordial.
After a few unimportant remarks Mr. Franklin said that he must retire.

"I'd like to know, miss, what that puppy said to you. He's been here all
the evening, I dare say."

"He has, Lawrence; but I will not have my friends spoken of in that
way."

"Your friends indeed! What do you intend to do about it?"

Meanwhile her hand, persistently kept in her pocket, nervously moved the
electric armature, and a sudden twinge of pain startled her. Her finger,
caught between the wires, felt the shock of a returning current.
Suddenly the pain flashed again, and she understood it. Elmer was
replying to her. She forced herself to read his words by the pain the
wires caused her, and she spelled out:

"Keep cool. Don't fear him."

"Seems to me you're precious silent, miss."

"One might well keep silence while you use such language as you do,
Lawrence Belford."

"Who's a better right?"

"No man has a right not to be a gentleman, and as for your right, I have
decided to withdraw it."

"What do you mean?" he cried in sudden anger.

She drew her hand out of her pocket, slowly took off her engagement
ring, and said,

"That."

"Oh! We'll have none of that. You may put your ring on again."

"I shall never wear it again."

"Yes, you will."

"I shall not."

"Look here, Miss Denny. We'll have no nonsense. You are going to marry
me next week. I suppose you know that mortgage is to be foreclosed on
Monday, and you and your father will be beggars. I know how to stop all
this, and I can do it. Marry me, and go to New York with me on
Wednesday, and the mortgage will be withdrawn."

"We may find the will before that."

"Oh! You may, you may. You and your father have been searching for that
will these ten years. You haven't found it yet, and you won't."

Alma under any ordinary circumstances would have quailed before this
man. As it was, those trails of copper wire down her dress kept her
busy. She rapidly sent off through them nearly all that was said, and
her knight of the battery sat up stairs copying it off alone in his
room, and almost swearing with anger and excitement.

Suddenly the messages stopped. He listened sharply at the door. Not a
sound. The old house was as still as a grave. Several minutes passed,
and nothing came. What had happened? Had he cut the wires? Had Alma
fainted? Suddenly the sounder spoke out sharp and clear in the silent
room:

"Elmer, come!"

He seized a revolver from the bureau, and thrusting it into his pocket,
tore off the white strip of paper that had rolled out of the instrument,
and with it in his hand he went quickly down stairs. He opened the door
without knocking, and advanced into the middle of the room.

The moment he entered, Alma sprang up from her seat, pulling out the two
wires as she did so, and throwing her arm about the young man, she cried
out in an agony of fear and shame:

"Oh, Elmer, Elmer! Take me away! Take me to my father!"

He supported her with his right arm, and turned to face her assailant
with the crumbled ribbon of paper still in his hand.

"What does this mean, sir? Have you been ill treating my cousin?"

"Go to bed, boy. It's very late for school children to be up."

"Your language is insulting, sir. I repeat it. What have you said or
done to Miss Denny?"

"Oh! Come away! come away, Elmer!"

"None of your business, you puppy."

"There is no need to ask what you said, sir. I know every word and have
made a copy of it."

"Ah! Listening, were you?"

"No, sir. Miss Denny has told me. Do you see those wires? They will
entangle you yet and trip you up."

"Come away, Elmer. Come away."

"For the present I will retire, sir; but, mark me, your game is nearly
up."

"By, by, children. Good night. Remember your promise, Miss Denny. The
carriage will be all ready."

Without heeding this last remark, Elmer, with his cousin on his arm,
withdrew. As they closed the door the telegraph wires caught in the
carpet and broke. The man saw them, and picking one up, he examined it
closely.

Suddenly he dropped it and turned ashen pale. With all his bravado, he
quailed before those slender wires upon the carpet. He did not
understand them. He guessed they might be some kind of telegraph, but
beyond this everything was vague and mysterious, and they filled him
with guilty alarm and terror.

                                        CHARLES BARNARD.




FROM NORMANDY TO THE PYRENEES.


The other day, before the first fire of winter, when the deepening dusk
had compelled me to close my book and wheel my chair closer, I indulged
in a retrospect. The objects of it were not far distant, and yet they
seemed already to glow with the mellow tints of the days that are no
more. In the crackling flame the last remnant of the summer appeared to
shrink up and vanish. But the flicker of its destruction made a sort of
fantastic imagery, and in the midst of the winter fire the summer
sunshine seemed to glow. It lit up a series of visible memories.




I.


One of the first was that of a perfect day on the coast of Normandy--a
warm, still Sunday in the early part of August. From my pillow, on
waking, I could look at a strip of blue sea and a section of white
cliff. I observed that the sea had never been so brilliant, and that the
cliff was shining like the coast of Paros. I rose and came forth with
the sense that it was the finest day of summer, and that one ought to do
something uncommon by way of keeping it. At Etretal it was uncommon to
take a walk; the custom of the country is to lie all day upon the pebbly
strand watching, as we should say in America, your fellow boarders. Your
leisurely stroll, in a scanty sheet, from your bathing cabin into the
water, and your trickling progress from the water back into your cabin,
form, as a general thing, the sum total of your peregrination. For the
rest you remain horizontal, contemplating the horizon. To mark the day
with a white stone, therefore, it was quite sufficient to stretch my
legs. So I climbed the huge grassy cliff which shuts in the little bay
on the right (as you lie on the beach, head upward), and gained the
bleak white chapel of Notre Dame de la Garde, which a lady told me she
was sure was the original of Matthew Arnold's "Little Gray Church on the
Windy Hill." This is very likely; but the little church to-day was not
gray; neither was the hill windy.

I had occasion, by the time I reached the summit, to wish it had been.
Deep, silent sunshine filled the air, and the long grass of the downs
stood up in the light without a tremor. The downs at Etretal are
magnificent, and the way they stretched off toward Dieppe, with their
shining levels and their faintly-shaded dells, was in itself an
irresistible invitation. On the land side they have been somewhat
narrowed by cultivation; the woods, and farms, and grain fields here and
there creep close enough to the edge of the cliff almost to see the
shifting of the tides at its base. But cultivation in Normandy is itself
picturesque, and the pedestrian rarely need resent its encroachments.
Neither walls nor hedges or fences are anywhere visible; the whole land
lies open to the breezes and to his curious footsteps. This universal
absence of barriers gives an air of vastness to the landscape, so that
really, in a little French province, you have more of the feeling of
being in a big country than on our own huge continent, which bristles so
unconsciously with prohibitory rails and stone-piles. Norman farmhouses,
too, with their mossy roofs and their visible beams making all kinds of
triangles upon the ancient plaster of their walls, are very delightful
things. Hereabouts they have always a dark little wood close beside
them; often a _chenaie_, as the term is--a fantastic little grove of
tempest-tossed oaks. The trees look as if, some night, when the
sea-blasts were howling their loudest and their boughs were tossing
most wildly, the tumult had suddenly been stilled and they had stopped
short, each in the attitude into which the storm was twisting it. The
only thing the storm can do with them now is to blow them straight. The
long, indented coast line had never seemed to me so charming. It
stretched away into the light haze of the horizon, with such lovely
violet spots in its caves and hollows, and such soft white gleams on its
short headlands--such exquisite gradations of distance and such
capricious interruptions of perspective--that one could only say that
the land was really trying to smile as hard as the sea. The smile of the
sea was a positive simper. Such a glittering and twinkling, such a
softness and blueness, such tiny little pin-points of foam, and such
delicate little wrinkles of waves--all this made the ocean look like a
flattered portrait.

The day I speak of was a Sunday, and there were to be races at Fecamp,
ten miles away. The agreeable thing was, of course, to walk to Fecamp,
over the grassy downs. I walked and walked, over the levels and the
dells, having land and ocean quite to myself. Here and there I met a
shepherd, lying flat on his stomach in the sun, while his sheep, in
extreme dishabille (shearing time being recent), went huddling in front
of me as I approached. Far below, on the blue ocean, like a fly on a
table of lapis, crawled a little steamer, carrying people from Etretal
to the races. I seemed to go much faster, yet the steamer got to Fecamp
before me. But I stopped to gossip with a shepherd on a grassy hillside,
and to admire certain little villages which are niched in small,
transverse, seaward-sloping valleys. The shepherd told me that he had
been farm-servant to the same master for five-and-thirty years--ever
since the age of ten; and that for thirty-five summers he had fed his
flock upon those downs. I don't know whether his sheep were tired of
their diet, but he professed himself very tired of his life. I remarked
that in fine weather it must be charming, and he observed, with
humility, that to thirty-five summers there went several rainy days.

The walk to Fecamp would be purely delightful if it were not for the
_fonds_. The _fonds_ are the transverse valleys just mentioned--the
channels, for the most part, of small water-courses which discharge
themselves into the sea. The downs subside, precipitately, to the level
of the beach, and then slowly lift their grassy shoulders on the other
side of the gully. As the cliffs are of immense height, these
indentations are profound, and drain off a little of the exhilaration of
the too elastic pedestrian. The first _fond_ trike him as delightfully
picturesque, and he is down the long <DW72> on one side and up the
gigantic hump on the other before he has time to feel hot. But the
second is greeted with that tempered _empressement_ with which you bow
in the street to an acquaintance with whom you have met half an hour
before; the third is a stale repetition; the fourth is decidedly one too
many, and the fifth is sensibly exasperating. The _fonds_, in a word,
are very tiresome. It was, if I remember rightly, in the bottom of the
last and widest of the series that I discovered the little town of
Yport. Every little fishing village on the Norman coast has, within the
last ten years, set up in business as a watering-place; and, though one
might fancy that Nature had condemned Yport to modest obscurity, it is
plain that she has no idea of being out of the fashion. But she is a
miniature imitation of her rivals. She has a meagre little wood behind
her and an evil-smelling beach, on which bathing is possible only at the
highest tide. At the scorching mid-day hour at which I inspected her she
seemed absolutely empty, and the ocean, beyond acres of slippery
seaweed, looked very far away. She has everything that a properly
appointed _station de bains_ should have, but everything is on a
Lilliputian scale. The whole place looked like a huge Nueremburg toy.
There is a diminutive hotel, in which, properly, the head waiter should
be a pigmy and the chambermaid a sprite, and beside it there is a
_Casino_ on the smallest possible scale. Everything about the _Casino_
is so harmoniously undersized that it seems a matter of course that the
newspapers in the reading-room should be printed in the very finest
type. Of course there is a reading-room, and a dancing-room, and a
_cafe_, and a billiard-room, with a bagatelle board instead of a table,
and a little terrace on which you may walk up and down with very short
steps. I hope the prices are as tiny as everything else, and I suspect,
indeed, that Yport honestly claims, not that she is attractive, but that
she is cheap.

I toiled up the perpendicular cliff again, and took my way over the
grass, for another hour, to Fecamp, where I found the peculiarities of
Yport directly reversed. The place is a huge, straggling village, seated
along a wide, shallow bay, and adorned, of course, with the classic
_Casino_ and the row of hotels. But all this is on a very brave scale,
though it is not manifest that the bravery of Fecamp has won a victory;
and, indeed, the local attractions did not strike me as irresistible. A
pebbly beach of immense length, fenced off from the town by a grassy
embankment; a _Casino_ of a bold and unsociable aspect; a principal inn,
with an interminable brown facade, suggestive somehow of an asylum or an
almshouse--such are the most striking features of this particular
watering-place. There are magnificent cliffs on each side of the bay,
but, as the French say, without impropriety, it is the devil to get to
them. There was no one in the hotel, in the Casino, or on the beach; the
whole town being in the act of climbing the further cliff, to reach the
downs on which the races were to be held. The green hillside was black
with trudging spectators and the long sky line was fretted with them.
When I say there was no one at the inn, I forget the gentleman at the
door who informed me positively that he would give me no breakfast; he
seemed to have staid at home from the races expressly to give himself
this pleasure. But I went further and fared better, and procured a meal
of homely succulence, in an unfashionable tavern, in a back street,
where the wine was sound, the cutlets tender, and the serving-maid rosy.
Then I walked along--for a mile, it seemed--through a dreary, gray
_grand rue_, where the sunshine was hot, the odors portentous, and the
doorsteps garnished with aged fishwives, retired from business, whose
plaited linen coifs looked picturesquely white, and their faces
picturesquely brown. I inspected the harbor and its goodly basin--with
nothing in it--and certain pink and blue houses, which surround it, and
then, joining the last stragglers, I clambered up the side of the cliff
to the downs.

The races had already begun, and the ring of spectators was dense. I
picked out some of the smallest people, looked over their heads, and saw
several young farmers, in parti- jackets, and very red in the
face, bouncing up and down on handsome cart-horses. Satiated at last
with this diversion, I turned away and wandered down the hill again; and
after strolling through the streets of Fecamp, and gathering not a
little of the wayside entertainment that a seaport and fishing town
always yields, I repaired to the Abbey church, a monument of some
importance, and almost as great an object of pride in the town as the
Casino. The Abbey of Fecamp was once a very rich and powerful
establishment, but nothing remains of it now save its church and its
_trappistine_. The church, which is for the most part early Gothic, is
very stately and picturesque, and the _trappistine_, which is a
distilled liquor of the _Chartreuse_ family, is much prized by people
who take a little glass after their coffee. By the time I had done with
the Abbey, the townsfolk had slid _en masse_ down the cliff again, the
yellow afternoon had come, and the holiday takers, before the
wine-shops, made long and lively shadows. I hired a sort of two-wheeled
gig, without a board, and drove back to Etretal in the rosy stage of
evening. The gig dandled me up and down in a fashion of which I had been
unconscious since I left off baby-clothes; but the drive, through the
charming Norman country, over roads which lay among the peaceful meadows
like paths amid a park, was altogether delightful. The sunset gave a
deeper mellowness to the standing crops, and in the grassiest corner of
the wayside villages the young men and maidens were dancing like the
figures in vignette illustrations of classic poets.




II.


You may say there is nothing in this very commonplace adventure to
sentimentalize about, and that when one plucks sentimentally a brand
from the burning one should pick out a more valuable one. I certainly
call it a picked day, at any rate, when I went to breakfast at St.
Jouin, at the beautiful Ernestine's. Don't be alarmed; if I was just now
too tame, I am not turning wild. The beautiful Ernestine is not my
especial beauty, but every one's, and to contemplate her charms you have
only to order breakfast. They shine forth the more brilliantly in
proportion as your order is liberal, and Ernestine is beautiful
according as your bill is large. In this case she comes and smiles,
really very handsomely, around your table, and you feel some hesitation
in accusing so well-favored a person of extortion. She keeps an inn at
the end of a lane which diverges from the high road between Etretal and
Havre, and it is an indispensable feature of your "station" at the
former place that you choose some fine morning and seek her hospitality.
She has been a celebrity these twenty years, and is no longer a simple
maiden in her flower; but twenty years, if they have diminished her
early bloom, have richly augmented her _musee_. This is a collection of
all the verses and sketches, the autographs, photographs, monographs,
and trinkets presented to the amiable hostess by admiring tourists. It
covers the walls of her sitting-room and fills half a dozen big albums
which you look at while breakfast is being prepared, just as if you were
awaiting dinner in genteel society. Most Frenchmen of the day whom one
has heard of appear to have called at St. Jouin, and to have left their
_homages_. Each of them has turned a compliment with pen or pencil, and
you may see in a glass case on the parlor wall what Alexandre Dumas,
Fils, thought of the landlady's nose, and how several painters measured
her ankles.

Of course you must make this excursion in good company, and I affirm
that I was in the very best. The company prefers, equally of course, to
have its breakfast in the orchard in front of the house; which, if the
repast is good, will make it seem better still, and if it is poor, will
carry off its poorness. Clever innkeepers should always make their
victims (in tolerable weather) eat in the garden. I forget whether
Ernestine's breakfast was intrinsically good or bad, but I distinctly
remember enjoying it, and making everything welcome. Everything, that
is, save the party at the other table--the Paris actresses and the
American gentlemen. The combination of these two classes of persons,
individually so delightful, results in certain phenomena which seem less
in harmony with appleboughs and summer breezes than with the gas lamps
and thick perfumes of a _cabinet particulier_, and yet it was
characteristic of this odd mixture of things that Mlle. Ernestine,
coming to chat with her customers, should bear a beautiful infant on her
arm, and smile with artless pride on being assured of its filial
resemblance to herself. She looked decidedly handsome as she caressed
this startling attribute of quiet spinsterhood.

St. Jouin is close to the sea and to the finest cliffs in the world. One
of my companions, who had laden the carriage with his painting traps,
went off into a sunny meadow to take the portrait of a windmill, and I,
choosing the better portion, wandered through a little green valley with
the other. Ten minutes brought us to the edge of the cliffs, which at
this point of the coast are simply sublime. I had been thinking the
white sea-walls of Etretal the finest thing conceivable in this way, but
the huge red porphoritic-looking masses of St. Jouin have an even
grander character. I have rarely seen anything more picturesque. They
are strange, fantastic, out of keeping with the country, and for some
rather arbitrary reason suggested to me a Spanish or even African
landscape. Certain sun-scorched precipices in Spanish Sierras must have
very much the same warmth of tone and desolation of attitude. A very
picturesque feature of the cliffs of St. Jouin is that they are double
in height, as one may say. Falling to an immense depth, they encounter a
certain outward ledge, or terrace, where they pause and play a dozen
fantastic tricks, such as piling up rocks into the likeness of needles
and watch-towers; then they plunge again, and in another splendid sweep
descend to the beach. There was something very impressive in the way
their evil brows, looking as if they were all stained with blood and
rust, were bent upon the blue expanse of the sleeping sea.




III.


In a month of beautiful weather at Etretal, every day was not an
excursion, but every day seemed indeed a picked day. For that matter, as
I lay on the beach watching the procession of the easy-going hours, I
took a good many mental excursions. The one, perhaps, on which I
oftenest started was a comparison between French manners, French habits,
French types, and those of my native land. These comparisons are not
invidious; I don't conclude against one party and in favor of the other;
as the French say, _je constate_ simply. The French people about me were
"spending the summer" just as I had so often seen my fellow countrymen
spend it, and it seemed to me, as it had seemed to me at home, that this
operation places men and women under a sort of monstrous magnifying
glass. The human figure has a higher relief in the country than in town,
and I know of no place where psychological studies prosper so as at the
seaside. I shall not pretend to relate my observations in the order in
which they occurred to me (or indeed to relate them in full at all); but
I may say that one of the foremost was to this effect--that the summer
question, for every one, had been more easily settled than it usually is
at home. The solution of the problem of where to go had not been a
thin-petalled rose, plucked from among particularly sharp-pointed
thorns. People presented themselves with a calmness and freshness very
different from the haggard legacy of that fevered investigation which
precedes the annual exodus of the American citizen and his family. This
impression, with me, rests perhaps on the fact that most Frenchwomen
turned of thirty--the average wives and mothers--are so comfortably fat.
I have never seen such massive feminine charms as among the mature
_baigneuses_ of Etratal. The lean and desiccated person into whom a
dozen years of matrimony so often converts the blooming American girl
has no apparent correlative in the French race. A majestic plumpness
flourished all around me--the plumpness of triple chins and deeply
dimpled hands. I mused upon it, and I concluded that it was the result
of the best breakfasts and dinners in the world. It was the corpulence
of ladies who are thoroughly well fed, and who never walk a step that
they can spare. The assiduity with which the women of America measure
the length of our democratic pavements is doubtless a factor in their
frequent absence of redundancy of outline. As a "regular boarder" at the
Hotel Blanquet--pronounced by Anglo-Saxon visitors Blanket--I found
myself initiated into the mysteries of the French dietary system. I
assent to the common tradition that the French are a temperate people,
so long as it is understood in this sense--that they eat no more than
they want to. But they want to eat so much! Their capacity strikes me as
enormous, and we ourselves, if we are less regulated, are certainly much
more slender consumers.

The American breakfast has, I believe, long been a subject of irony to
the foreign observer; but the American breakfast is an ascetic meal
compared with the French _dejeuner a la fourchette_. The latter, indeed,
is simply a dinner without soup; it differs neither generically nor
specifically from the evening repast. If it excludes soup, it includes
eggs, prepared in a hundred forms; and if it proscribes champagne, it
admits beer in foaming pitchers, so that the balance is fairly
preserved. I think it is rarely that an American will not feel a certain
sympathetic heaviness in the reflection that a French family that sits
down at half past eleven to fish and entrees and roasts, to asparagus
and beans, to salad and dessert, and cheese and coffee, proposes to do
exactly the same thing at dinner time. But we may be sure at any rate
that the dinner will be as good as the breakfast, and that the breakfast
has nothing to fear from prospective comparison with the dinner; and we
may further reflect that in a country where eating is a peculiarly
unalloyed pleasure it is natural that this pleasure should be prolonged
and reiterated. Nothing is more noticeable among the French than their
superior intelligence in dietary matters; every one seems naturally a
judge, a dilettante. They have analyzed tastes and savors to a finer
point than we; they are aware of differences and relations of which we
take no heed. Observe a Frenchman of any age and of any station (I have
been quite as much struck with it in the very young men as in the old)
as he orders his breakfast or his dinner at a Parisian restaurant, and
you will perceive that the operation is much more solemn than it is apt
to be in New York or in London. (In London, indeed, it is intellectually
positively brutal.) Monsieur has, in a word, a certain ideal for that
particular repast, and it will make a difference in his happiness
whether the kidneys, for instance, of a certain style, are chopped to
the ultimate or only to the penultimate smallness. His directions and
admonitions to the waiter are therefore minute and exquisite, and
eloquently accentuated by the pressure of thumb and forefinger; and it
must be added that the imagination of the waiter is usually quite worthy
of the refined communion thus opened to it.

This subtler sense of quality is observable even among those classes in
which in other countries it is generally forestalled by a depressing
consciousness on the subject of quantity. Watch your Parisian porter and
his wife at their mid-day meal, as you pass up and down stairs. They are
not satisfying nature upon green tea and potatoes; they are seated
before a meal which has been reasoned out, which, on its modest scale,
is served in courses, and has a beginning, a middle, and an end. I will
not say that the French sense of comfort is confined to the philosophy
of nutrition, but it is certainly higher at this point (and perhaps one
other) than it is elsewhere. French people must have a good dinner and a
good bed; but they are willing that the bed should be stationed and the
dinner be eaten in the most unpleasant neighborhoods. Your porter and
his wife dine grandly and sleep soft in their lodge, but their lodge is
in all probability a fetid black hole, five feet square, in which, in
England or in America, people of their talents would never consent to
live. French people consent to live in the dark, to huddle together, to
forego privacy, and to let bad smells grow great among them. They have
an accursed passion for coquettish furniture: for cold, brittle chairs,
for tables with scolloped edges, for ottomans without backs, for
fireplaces muffled in plush and fringe and about as cheerful as a
festooned hearse. A French bedroom is a bitter mockery--a ghastly
attempt to serve two masters which succeeds in being agreeable to
neither. It is a thing of traps and delusions, constructed on the
assumption that it is inelegant to be known to wash or to sleep, and yet
pervaded with suggestions of uncleanness compared with which a
well-wrung bathing sponge, well _en evidence_, is a delightful symbol of
purity. This comes of course from that supreme French quality, the
source of half the charm of the French mind as well of all its dryness,
the genius for economy. It is wasting a room to let it be a bedroom
alone; so it must be tricked out as an ingeniously contrived
sitting-room, and ends by being (in many cases) insufferable both by
night and by day. But allowing all weight to these latter reflections,
it is still very possible that the French have the better part. If you
are well fed, you can perhaps afford to be ill lodged; whereas, I doubt
whether enjoyment of the most commodious apartments is compatible with
inanition and dyspepsia.




IV.


If I had not cut short my mild retrospect by these possibly milder
generalizations, I should have touched lightly upon some of the social
phenomena of which the little beach at Etretal was the scene. I shall
have narrated that the French, at the seaside, are not "sociable" as
Americans affect to be in a similar situation, and I should subjoin that
at Etretal it was very well on the whole that they were not. The
immeasurably greater simplicity of composition of American society makes
sociability with us a comparatively untaxed virtue; but anything like
an equal exercise of it in France would be attended with alarming perils
and inconveniences. Sociability (in the American sense of the word) in
any aristocratic country would indeed be very much like an attempt to
establish visiting relations between birds and fishes. At Etretal no
making of acquaintance was observable; people went about in compact,
cohesive groups, of natural formation, governed doubtless, internally,
by humane regulation, but presenting to the world an impenetrable
defensive front. These groups usually formed a solid phalanx about two
or three young girls, compressed into the centre, the preservation of
whose innocence was their chief solicitude. Here, doubtless, the groups
were acting wisely, for with half a dozen _cocottes_, in scarlet
petticoats, scattered over the sunny, harmless looking beach, what were
mammas and duennas to do? In order that there should be a greater number
of approachable-irreproachable young girls in France there must first be
a smaller number of _cocottes_. It is not impossible, indeed, that if
the approachable-irreproachable young ladies were more numerous, the
_cocottes_ would be less numerous. If by some ingenious sumptuary
enactment the latter class could be sequestrated or relegated to the
background for a certain period--say ten years--the latter might
increase and multiply, and quite, in vulgar parlance, get the start of
it.

And yet after all this is a rather superficial reflection, for the
excellent reason that the very narrow peep at life allowed to young
French girls is not regarded, either by the young girls themselves or by
those who have their felicity most at heart, as a grave privation. The
case is not nearly so hard as it would be with us, for there is this
immense difference between the lot of the _jeune fille_ and her American
sister, that the former may as a general thing be said to be certain to
marry. "Ay, to marry ill," the Anglo-Saxon objector may reply. But the
objection is precipitate; for if French marriages are almost always
arranged, it must be added that they are in the majority of cases
arranged well. Therefore, if a _jeune fille_ is for three or four years
tied with a very short rope and compelled to browse exclusively upon the
meagre herbage which sprouts in the maternal shadow, she has at least
the comfort of reflecting that according to the native phrase, _on
s'occupe de la marier_--that measures are being carefully taken to
promote her to a condition of unbounded liberty. Whatever, to her
imagination, marriage may fail to mean, it at least means freedom and
consideration. It does not mean, as it so often means in America, being
socially shelved--and it is not too much to say, in certain circles,
degraded; it means being socially launched and consecrated. It means
becoming that exalted personage, a _mere de famille_. To be a _mere de
famille_ is to occupy not simply (as is rather the case with us) a
sentimental, but a really official position. The consideration, the
authority, the domestic pomp and circumstance allotted to a French mamma
are in striking contrast with the amiable tolerance which in our own
social order is so often the most liberal measure that the female parent
may venture to expect at her children's hands, and which, on the part of
the young lady of eighteen who represents the family in society, is not
infrequently tempered by a conscientious severity. All this is worth
waiting for, especially if you have not to wait very long. Mademoiselle
is married certainly, and married early, and she is sufficiently well
informed to know, and to be sustained by the knowledge, that the
sentimental expansion which may not take place at present will have an
open field after her marriage. That it should precede her marriage seems
to her as unnatural as that she should put on her shoes before her
stockings. And besides all this, to browse in the maternal shadow is not
considered in the least a hardship. A young French girl who is _bien
elevee_--an expression which means so much--will be sure to consider her
mother's company the most delightful in the world, and to think that the
herbage which sprouts about this lady's petticoats is peculiarly tender
and succulent. It may be fanciful, but it often seems to me that the
tone with which such a young girl says _Ma mere_ has a peculiar
intensity of meaning. I am at least not wrong in affirming that in the
accent with which the mamma--especially if she be of the well-rounded
order alluded to above--speaks of _Ma fille_ there is a kind of
sacerdotal dignity.




V.


After this came two or three pictures of quite another
complexion--pictures of which a long green valley, almost in the centre
of France, makes the general setting. The valley itself, indeed, forms
one delightful picture, although the country which surrounds it is by no
means a show region. It is the old region of the Gatinais, which has
plenty of history, but no great beauty. It is very still, deliciously
rural, and immitigably French. Normandy is Norman, Gascony is Gascon,
but this is France itself--the typical, average, "pleasant" France of
history, literature, and art--of art, of landscape art, perhaps,
especially. Wherever I look in the country I seem to see one of the
familiar pictures on a dealer's wall--a Lambinet, a Troyon, a Daubigny,
a Diaz. The Lambinets perhaps are in the majority; the mood of the
landscape usually expresses itself in silvery lights and vivid greens.
The history of this part of France is the history of the monarchy, and
its language is, I won't say absolutely the classic tongue, but a nearer
approach to it than any local _patois_. The peasants deliver themselves
with rather a drawl, but what they speak is good clean French that any
cockney can understand, which is more than can be said sometimes for
the violent jargon that emanates from the fishing folk of Etretal.

Each side of the long valley is a long low ridge, which offers it a
high, bosky horizon, and through the middle of it there flows a charming
stream, wandering, winding, and doubling, smothered here and there in
rocks, and spreading into lily-coated reaches, beneath the clear shadow
of tall, straight, light-leaved trees. On each side of the stream the
meadows stretch away flat, clean, and magnificent, lozenged across with
rows of sober foliage under which a cow-maiden sits on the grass hooting
now and then, nasally, to the large-uddered browsers in front of her.
There are no hedges, nor palings, nor walls; it is all a single estate.
Here and there in the meadows stands a cluster of red-roofed
hovels--each a diminutive village. At other points, at about half an
hour's walk apart, are three charming old houses. The chateaux are
extremely different, but, both picturesquely and conveniently, each has
its points. They are very intimate with each other, so that these points
may be amicably discussed. The points in one case, however, are
remarkably strong. The chateau stands directly in the little river I
have mentioned, on an island just great enough to hold it, and the
garden flowers grow upon the further bank. This, of course, is a most
delightful affair. But I found something very agreeable in the aspect of
one of the others, when I made it the goal of certain of those walks
before breakfast which of cool mornings in the late summer do not fall
into the category of ascetic pleasures. (In France, indeed, if one did
not do a great many things before breakfast, the work of life would be
but meagerly performed.)

The dwelling in question stands on the top of the long ridge which
encloses the comfortable valley to the south, being by its position
quite in the midst of its appurtenant acres. It is not particularly
"kept up," but its quiet rustiness and untrimmedness only help it to be
picturesque. A grassy plateau approaches it from the edge of the hill,
bordered on one side by a short avenue of horse-chestnuts, and on the
other by a dusky wood. Beyond the chestnuts are the steep-roofed,
yellow-walled farm buildings, and under cover of the wood a stretch of
beaten turf, where, on Sundays and holidays, the farm-servants play at
bowls. Directly before the chateau is a little square garden enclosed by
a low stone parapet, interrupted by a high gateway of mossy pillars and
iron arabesques, the whole of it overclambered by flowering vines. The
house, with its yellow walls and russet roof, is ample and substantial;
it is a very proper _gentilhommiere_. In a corner of the garden, at the
angle of the parapet, rises that classic emblem of rural gentility, the
_pigeonnier_, the old stone dovecote. It is a great round tower, as
broad of base as a lighthouse, with its roof shaped like an
extinguisher, and a big hole in its upper portion, in and out of which a
dove is always fluttering.

You see all this from the windows of the drawing-room. Be sure that the
drawing-room is pannelled in white and gray, with old rococo moulding
over the doorways and mantlepiece. The open garden gateway, with its
tangled vines, makes a frame for the picture that lies beyond the little
grassy esplanade where the thistles have been suffered to grow around a
disused stone well, placed at quaint remoteness from the house (if,
indeed, it is not a relic of an earlier habitation), a picture of a wide
green country rising beyond the unseen valley, and stretching away to a
far horizon in deep blue lines of wood. Behind, through other windows,
you look out on the gardens proper. There are places that take one's
fancy by some accident of expression, by some mystery of accident. This
one is high and breezy, both sunny and shady, plain yet picturesque,
extremely cheerful, and a little melancholy. It has what in the arts is
called "style," and so it took mine.

Going to call on the peasants was as charming an affair as a chapter in
one of George Sand's rural tales. I went one Sunday morning with my
hostess, who knew them well and engaged their most garrulous confidence.
I don't mean that they told her all their secrets, but they told her a
good many; if the French peasant is a simpleton, he is a very shrewd
simpleton. At any rate, of a Sunday morning in August, when he is
stopping at home from work, and he has put on his best jacket and
trowsers, and is loafing at the door of his neighbor's cabin, he is a
very charming person. The peasantry in the region I speak of had
admirably good manners. The cure gave me a low account of their morals;
by which he meant, on the whole, I suspect, that they were moderate
church-goers. But they have the instinct of civility and a talent for
conversation; they know how to play the host and the entertainer. By
"he," just now, I meant _she_ quite as much; it is rare that, in
speaking superlatively of the French, in any connection, one does not
think of the women even more than of the men. They constantly strike the
foreigner as a stronger expression of the qualities of the race. On the
occasion I speak of the first room in the very humble cabins I
successively visited--in some cases, evidently, it was the only
room--had been set into irreproachable order for the day. It had usually
a sort of brown-toned picturesqueness, begotten of the high
chimney-place, with its swinging pots, the important bed, in its dusky
niche, with its flowered curtains, the big-bellied earthenware on the
cupboard, the long-legged clock in the corner, the thick, quiet light of
the small, deeply-set window; the mixture, on all things, of smoke-stain
and the polish of horny hands. Into the midst of this "la Rabillon" or
"la Mere Leger" brings forward her chairs and begs us to be seated, and
seating herself, with crossed hands, smiles handsomely and answers
abundantly all questions about her cow, her husband, her bees, her eggs,
and her last-born. The men linger half outside and half in, with their
shoulders against dressers and door-posts; every one smiles, with that
simple, clear-eyed smile of the gratified peasant; they talk much more
like George Sand's Berrichons than might be supposed. And if they
receive us without gross awkwardness, they speed us on our way with
proportionate urbanity. I go to six or eight little hovels, all of them
dirty outside and clean within; I am entertained everywhere with the
_bonhomie_, the quaintness, the good faces and good manners of their
occupants, and I finish my tour with an esteem for my new acquaintance
which is not diminished by learning that several of them have thirty or
forty thousand francs securely laid by.

And yet, as I say, M. le Cure thinks they are in a bad way, and he knows
something about them. M. le Cure, too, is not a dealer in scandal; there
is something delightfully quaint in the way in which he deprecates an
un-Christian construction of his words. There is more than one cure in
the valley whose charms I celebrate; but the worthy priest of whom I
speak is the pearl of the local priesthood. He has been accused, I
believe, of pretentions to what is called _illuminisme_; but even in his
most illuminated moments it can never occur to him that he has been
chronicled in an American magazine, and therefore it is not indiscreet
to say that he is the cure, not of Gy, but of the village nearest to Gy.
I write this sentence half for the pleasure of putting down that
briefest of village names and seeing how it looks in print. But it may
be elongated at will, and yet be only improved. If you wish to be very
specific, you may call it Gy-les-Nonnains--Gy of the Little Nuns. I went
with my hostess, another morning, to call upon M. le Cure, who himself
opened his garden door to us (there was a crooked little black cross
perched upon it), and, lifting his rusty _calotte_, stood there a moment
in the sunshine, smiling a greeting more benignant than words.

A rural _presbytere_ is not a very sumptuous dwelling, and M. le Cure's
little drawing room reminded me of a Yankee parlor (_minus_ the
subscription books from Hartford, on the centre-table) in some
out-of-the-way corner of New England. But he took us into his very
diminutive garden, and showed us an ornament that would not have
flourished in the shade of a Yankee parlor--a rude stone image of the
Virgin, which he had become possessed of I know not how, and for which
he was building a sort of niche in the wall. The work was going on
slowly, for he must take the labor as he could get it; but he appealed
to his visitors, with a smile of indulgent irony, for an assurance that
his little structure would not make too bad a figure. One of them told
him that she would send him some white flowers to set out round his
statue; whereupon he clasped his hands together over his snuff-box and
expressed cheerful views of the world we live in. A couple of days
afterward he came to breakfast, and, of course, he arrived early, in his
new cassock and band. I found him in the billiard-room, walking up and
down alone, and reading his breviary. The combination of the locality,
the personage, and the occupation made me smile; and I smiled again
when, after breakfast, I found him walking up and down the garden,
puffing a cigarette. Of course he had an excellent appetite; but there
is something rather cruel in those alternations of diet to which the
French parish priest is subjected. At home he lives like a peasant--a
fact which, in itself, is not particularly cruel, inasmuch as he is
usually a peasant born. But his fellow peasants don't breakfast at the
chateau and gaze adown the savory vistas opened by cutlets a la
Soubise. They have not the acute pain of being turned back into the
stale atmosphere of bread and beans. Of course it is by no means every
day or every week even that M. le Cure breakfasts at the chateau; but
there must nevertheless be a certain uncomfortable crookedness in his
position. He lives like a laborer, and yet he is treated like a
gentleman. The latter character must seem to him sometimes a rather
heavy irony on the other. But to the ideal cure, of course, all
characters are equal; he thinks neither too ill of his bad breakfasts,
nor too well of his good ones. I won't say that the excellent man I
speak of is the ideal cure, but I suspect he is an approach to it; he
has a grain of epicureanism to an ounce of stoicism. In the garden path,
beside the moat, while he puffed his cigarette, he told me how he had
held up his head to the Prussians; for, hard as it seemed to believe it,
that pastoral valley had been occupied by ravaging Teutons. According to
this recital, he had spoken his mind civilly, but most distinctly, to
the group of officers who had made themselves at home in his
dwelling--had informed them that it grieved him profoundly that he was
obliged to meet them standing there in his cassock, and not out in the
fields with a musket in his hands and a dozen congenial spirits at his
side. The scene must have been picturesque. The first of the officers
got up from table and asked for the privilege of shaking his hand. "M.
le Cure," he said, "j'estime hautement votre caractere."

Six miles away--or nearer, by a charming shaded walk along a canal--was
an ancient town with a legend--a legend which, as a child, I read in my
lesson-book at school, marvelling at the wood-cut above it, in which a
ferocious dog was tearing a strange man to pieces, while the king and
his courtiers sat by as if they were at the circus. I allude to it
chiefly in order to mention the name of one of its promenades, which is
the stateliest, beyond all comparison, in the world; the name, I mean,
not the street. The latter is called Les Belles Manieres. Could
anything be finer than that? With what a sweep gentlemen must once have
taken off their hats there; how ladies must once have curtsied,
regardless of gutters, and how people must have turned up their toes as
they walked!




VI.


My next impressions were gathered on the margin of a southern sea--if
the Bay of Biscay indeed deserves so soft-sounding a name. We generally
have a mental image beforehand of a place we think of going to, and I
supposed I had a tolerably vivid prevision of Biarritz. I don't know
why, but I had a singular sense of having been there; the name always
seemed to me expressive. I saw the way it lay along its gleaming beach;
I had taken in imagination the long walks toward Spain over the low
cliffs, with the blue sea always to my right, and the blue Pyrenees
always before me. My only fear was that my mental picture was not
brilliant enough; but this could easily be touched up on the spot. In
truth, however, I was exclusively occupied in toning it down. Biarritz
seemed to be decidedly below its reputation; I am at a loss to see how
its reputation was made. There is a partial explanation that is obvious
enough. There is a low, square, bare brick mansion seated on the sands,
under shelter of a cliff; it is one of the first objects to attract the
attention of an arriving stranger. It is not picturesque, it is not
romantic, and even in the days of its prosperity it never can have been
impressive. It is called the Villa Eugenie, and it explains in a great
measure, as I say, the Biarritz which the arriving stranger, with some
dismay, perceives about him. It has the aspect of one of the "cottages"
of Newport during the winter season, and is surrounded by an even
scantier umbrage than usually flourishes in the vicinity of those
establishments. It was what the newspapers call the "favorite resort"
of the ex-Empress of the French, who might have been seen at her
imperial avocations with a good glass at any time from the Casino. The
Casino, I hasten to add, has quite the air of an establishment
frequented by gentlemen who look on ladies' windows with telescopes.
There are Casinos and Casinos, and that of Biarritz is, in the summary
French phrase, "impossible." Except for its view, it is moreover very
unattractive. Perched on the top of a cliff which has just space enough
to hold its immense brick foundations, it has no garden, no promenade,
no shade, no place of out-of-door reunion--the most indispensable
feature of a Casino. It turns its back to the Pyrenees and to Spain, and
looks out prettily enough over a blue ocean to an arm of the low French
coast.

Biarritz, for the rest, scrambles over two or three steep hills,
directly above the sea, in a promiscuous, many-, noisy fashion.
It is a watering-place, pure and simple; every house has an expensive
little shop in the basement, and a still more expensive set of rooms to
let above stairs. The houses are blue, and pink, and green; they stick
to the hillsides as they can, and being near Spain, you try to fancy
they look Spanish. You succeed perhaps, even a little, and are rewarded
for your zeal by finding, when you cross the border a few days
afterward, that the houses at San Sebastian look strikingly French.
Biarritz is bright, crowded, irregular, filled with many sounds, and not
without a certain second-rate picturesqueness; but it struck me as
common and cocknified, and my vision travelled back to modest little
Etretal, by its northern sea, as to a more truly delectable
resting-place. The southwestern coast of France has little of the
exquisite charm of the Mediterranean shore. It has of course a southern
expression which in itself is always delightful. You see a brilliant,
yellow sun, with a pink-faced, red-tiled house staring up at it. You
can see here and there a trellis and an orange tree, a peasant woman in
gold necklace, driving a donkey, a lame beggar adorned with ear-rings, a
glimpse of blue sea between white garden walls. But the superabundant
detail of the French Riviera is wanting; the softness, luxuriousness,
enchantment.

The most picturesque thing at Biarritz is the Basque population, which
overflows from the adjacent Spanish provinces and swarms in the crooked
streets. It lounges all day in the public places, sprawls upon the
curbstones, clings to the face of the cliffs, and vociferates
continually in a shrill, strange tongue, which has no discoverable
affinity with any other. The Basques look like the hardier and thriftier
Neapolitan lazzaroni; if the superficial resemblance is striking, the
difference is very much in their favor. Although those specimens which I
observed at Biarritz appeared to enjoy an excess of leisure, they had
nothing of a shiftless or beggarly air, and seemed as little disposed to
ask favors as to confer them. The roads leading into Spain were dotted
with them, and here they were coming and going as if on important
business--the business of the abominable Don Carlos himself. They struck
me as a very handsome race. The men are invariably clean shaved; smooth
chins seem a positively religious observance. They wear little round,
maroon- caps, like those of sailor-boys, dark stuff shirts, and
curious white shoes, made of strips of rope laid together--an article of
toilet which makes them look like honorary members of base-ball clubs.
They sling their jackets, cavalier fashion, over one shoulder, hold
their heads very high, swing their arms very bravely, step out very
lightly, and when you meet them in the country at eventide, charging
down a hillside in companies of half a dozen, make altogether a most
impressive appearance. With their smooth chins and childish caps, they
may be taken, in the distance, for a lot of very naughty little boys.
They have always a cigarette in their teeth.

The best thing at Biarritz is your opportunity for driving over into
Spain. Coming speedily to a consciousness of this fact, I found a charm
in sitting in a landau and rolling away to San Sebastian, behind a
driver in a high glazed hat with long streamers, a jacket of scarlet and
silver, and a pair of yellow breeches and of jack-boots. If it has been
the desire of one's heart and the dream of one's life to visit the land
of Cervantes, even grazing it so lightly as by a day's excursion from
Biarritz is a matter to set one romancing. Everything helping--the
admirable scenery, the charming day, my operatic coachman, and
smooth-rolling carriage--I am afraid I romanced more than it is decent
to tell of. You face toward the beautifully outlined mass of the
Pyrenees, as if you were going to plunge straight into them, but in
reality you travel beneath them and beside them; you pass between their
expiring spurs and the sea. It is on proceeding beyond San Sebastian
that you seriously attack them. But they are already extremely
picturesque--none the less so that in this region they abound in
suggestion of the recent Carlist war. Their far-away peaks and ridges
are crowned with lonely Spanish watch-towers and their lower <DW72>s are
dotted with demolished dwellings. It was hereabouts that the fighting
was most constant. But the healing powers of nature are as remarkable as
the destructive powers of man, and the rich September landscape appeared
already to have forgotten the injuries of yesterday. Everything seemed
to me a savory foretaste of Spain. I discovered an unconscionable amount
of local color. I discovered it at St. Jean de Luz, the last French
town, in a great brown church, filled with galleries and boxes, like a
playhouse--the altar and chair, indeed, looked very much like a
proscenium; at Bohebia, on the Bidassoa, the small yellow stream which
divides France from Spain, and which at this point offers to view the
celebrated Isle of Pheasants, a little bushy strip of earth adorned with
a decayed commemorative monument, on which, in the seventeenth century,
the affairs of Louis XIV. and his brother monarch were discussed in
ornamental conference; at Fuentarabia (glorious name), a mouldering
relic of Spanish stateliness; at Hondaye, at Irun, at Renteria, and
finally at San Sebastian. At all of these wayside towns the houses show
marks of Alphonsist bullets (the region was strongly Carlist); but to be
riddled and battered seems to carry out the meaning of the pompous old
escutcheons carven above the doorways, some of them covering almost half
the house. It seemed to me, in fact, that the narrower and shabbier was
the poor little dusky dwelling, the grander and more elaborate was this
noble advertisement. But it stood for knightly prowess, and pitiless
Time had taken up the challenge. I found it fine work to rumble through
the narrow single street of Irun and Renteria, between the
strange- houses, the striped awnings, the universal balconies,
and the heraldic doorways.

San Sebastian is a lively watering-place, and is set down in the
guidebooks as the Biarritz or the Brighton of Spain. It has of course a
new quarter in the provincial-elegant style (fresh stucco cafes, barber
shops, and apartments to let), looking out upon a planted promenade and
a charming bay, locked in fortified heights, with a narrow portal to the
ocean. I walked about for two or three hours, and devoted most of my
attention to the old quarter, the town proper, which has a great
frowning gate upon the harbor, through which you look along a vista of
gaudy house fronts, balconies, and awnings, surmounted by a narrow strip
of sky. Here the local color was richer, the manners more _naif_. Here
too was a church with a flamboyant Jesuit facade and an interior
redolent of Spanish Catholicism. There was a life-sized effigy of the
Virgin perched upon a table beside the great altar (she appeared to
have been walking abroad in a procession), whom I looked at with extreme
interest. She seemed to me a heroine, a solid Spanish person, as perfect
a reality as Don Quixote or St. Theresa. She was dressed in an
extraordinary splendor of laces, brocades, and jewels, her coiffure and
complexion were of the finest, and she evidently would answer to her
name if you spoke to her. Improving the stateliest title I could think
of, I addressed her as Dona Maria of the Holy Office; whereupon she
looked round the great dusky, perfumed church, to see whether we were
alone, and then she dropped her fringed eyelids and held out her hand to
be kissed. She was the Sentiment of Spanish Catholicism: gloomy, yet
bedizened, emotional as a woman, and yet mechanical as a doll. After a
moment I grew afraid of her, and went slinking away. After this I didn't
really recover my spirits until I had the satisfaction of hearing myself
addressed as "Cabellero." I was hailed with this epithet by a ragged
infant, with sickly eyes and a cigarette in his lips, who invited me to
cast a copper into the sea, that he might dive for it; and even with
these limitations, the sensation seemed worth the cost of my excursion.
It appeared kinder, to my gratitude, to make the infant dive upon the
pavement.

A few days later I went back to San Sebastian, to witness a bull fight;
but I suppose my right to descant upon this entertainment should be
measured less by the gratification it afforded me than by the question
whether there is room in literature for another bull fight. I incline to
think there is not; the Spanish diversion is the best described thing in
the world. Besides, there are other reasons for not describing it. It is
extremely disgusting, and one should not describe disgusting
things--except (according to the new school) in novels, when they have
not really occurred, and are manufactured on purpose. But one has taken
a certain sort of pleasure in the bull fight, and yet how is one to
state gracefully that one has taken pleasure in a disgusting thing? It
is a hard case. If you record your pleasure, distinctly, you seem to
exaggerate it and to calumniate your delicacy; and if you record nothing
but your displeasure, you feel rather crabbed and stingy. This much I
can say, at any rate, that as there had been no bull fights in that part
of the country during the Carlist war, the native dilettanti (and every
man, woman, and child of them comes under this denomination) returned to
their previous pastime with peculiar zest. The spectacle, therefore, had
an unusual splendor. Under these circumstances it is highly picturesque.
The weather was beautiful; the near mountains peeped over the top of the
vast open arena, as if they too were curious; weary of disembowelled
horses and posturing _espadas_, the spectator (in the boxes) might turn
away and look through an unglazed window at the empty town and the
cloud-shadowed sea. But few of the native spectators availed themselves
of this privilege. Beside me sat a blooming matron, in a white lace
mantilla, with three very juvenile daughters; and if these ladies
sometimes yawned, they never shivered. For myself, I confess that if I
sometimes shivered, I never yawned. A long list of bulls was sacrificed,
each of whom had pretentions to originality. The _banderillos_, in their
silk stockings and embroidered satin costumes, skipped about with a
great deal of elegance; the _espada_ folded his arms, within six inches
of the bull's nose, and stared him out of countenance; but I thought the
bull, in any case, a finer fellow than any of his tormentors, and I
thought his tormentors finer fellows than the spectators. In truth, we
were all, for the time, rather sorry fellows together. A bull fight
will, to a certain extent, bear looking at, but it will not bear
thinking of. There was a more innocent picturesqueness in what I saw
afterward, when we all came away, in the late afternoon, as the shadows
were at their longest: the bright- southern crowd, spreading
itself over the grass, and the women, with mantillas and fans, strolling
up along before the mountains and the sea.

                                        HENRY JAMES, JR.




THE BALLAD OF CONSTANCE.


                   I.

   With diamond dew the grass was wet,
     T'was in the spring, and gentlest weather,
   And all the birds of morning met,
     And carolled in her heart together.


                  II.

   The wind blew softly o'er the land,
     And softly kissed the joyous ocean:
   He walked beside her, on the sand,
     And gave and won a heart's devotion.


                 III.

   The thistledown was in the breeze,
     With birds of passage homeward flying:
   His fortune called him o'er the seas,
     And on the shore he left her sighing.


                  IV.

   She saw his barque glide down the bay--
     Through tears and fears she could not banish;
   She saw his white sails melt away;
     She saw them fade; she saw them vanish.


                   V.

   And "Go," she said; "for winds are fair,
     And love and blessing round you hover:
   When you sail backward through the air,
     Then I will trust the word of lover."


                  VI.

   Still ebbed, still flowed the tide of years,
     Now chilled with snows, now bright with roses,
   And many smiles were turned to tears,
     And sombre morns to radiant closes.


                 VII.

   And many ships came gliding by,
     With many a golden promise freighted:
   But nevermore from sea or sky
     Came love to bless her heart that waited.


                 VII.

   Yet on, by tender patience led,
     Her sacred footsteps walked unbidden,
   Wherever sorrow bows its head,
     Or want and care and shame are hidden.


                  IX.

   And they who saw her snow-white hair,
     And dark, sad eyes, so deep with feeling,
   Breathed all at once the chancel air,
     And seemed to hear the organ pealing.


                   X.

   Till once, at shut of autumn day,
     In marble chill she paused and harkened,
   With startled gaze where far away
     The waste of sky and ocean darkened.


                  XI.

   There, for a moment, faint and wan,
     High up in air, and landward striving,
   Stern-fore a spectral barque came on,
     Across the purple sunset driving.


                 XII.

   Then something out of night she knew,
     Some whisper heard, from heaven descended,
   And peacefully as falls the dew
     Her long and lonely vigil ended.


                XIII.

   The violet and the bramble-rose
     Make glad the grass that dreams above her;
   And freed from time and all its woes,
     She trusts again the word of lover.

                                        WILLIAM WINTER.




THE HEARTBREAK CAMEO.


"It is a cameo to break one's heart!" said Mrs. Dalliba, as she toyed
with the superb jewel. "The cutting is unmistakably Florentine, and yet
you have placed it among your Indian curiosities. I do not understand it
at all."

Mrs. Dalliba was a connoisseur in gems; she had travelled from one
extremity of Europe to the other; had studied the crown jewels of nearly
every civilized nation, haunted museums, and was such a frequent visitor
at the jewellers' of the Palais Royal, that many of them had come to
regard her as an individual who might harbor burglarious intentions. She
was a very harmless specialist, however, who, though she loved these
stars of the underworld better than any human being, could never have
been tempted to make one of them unfairly her own, and she seldom
purchased, for she never coveted one unless it was something quite
extraordinary, beyond the reach of even her considerable fortune.
Meanwhile few of the larger jewelry houses had in their employ
lapidaries more skilled than Mrs. Dalliba. She pursued her studies for
the mere love of the science, devoting a year in Italy to mosaics,
cameos, and intaglios. And yet the Crevecoeur cameo had puzzled wiser
heads than Mrs. Dalliba's, adept though she was. It was cut from a solid
heart-shaped gem, a layer of pure white, shading down through exquisite
gradations into deep green, and represented Aphrodite rising from the
sea; the white form rose gracefully, with arms extended, scattering the
drops of spray from her hands and her wind-blown hair; the foamy waves
were beautifully cut with their intense hollows and snowy crests; it was
evidently the work of a cultivated as well as a natural artist; it was
not surprising that Mrs. Dalliba should insist that it could not have
been executed out of Italy.

But Prof. Stonehenge was right too; it was a stone of the chalcedonic
family, resembling sardonyx, except in color; others, similar to it both
in a natural state and wrought into arrow-heads, had been found along
the shores of Lake Superior. This seemed to have been brought away from
its associates by some wandering tribe, for it had been discovered in
Central Illinois. The nearest point at which other relics belonging to
the same period had been found was the site of Fort Crevecoeur, near
Starved Rock, Illinois. After all, the stone only differed from the
arrow-heads of Lake Superior in its beautiful carving and unprecedented
size--and, ah, yes! there was another difference, the mystery of its
discovery. No other skeleton among all the buried braves unearthed by
scientific research at Crevecoeur had been found with a gem for a
heart--a gem that glittered not on the breast, but within a chest hooped
with human bone. Mrs. Dalliba had just remarked that she had never felt
so strong a desire to possess and wear any jewel as now; but when Prof.
Stonehenge told how the uncanny thing rattled within the white ribs of
the skeleton in which it was found, she allowed the gem to slip from her
hand, while something of its own pale green flickered in the disgusted
expression which quivered about the corners of her mobile mouth. The
cameo was a mystery which had baffled geologist, antiquarian, and
sculptor alike, for Father Francis Xavier had gone down to his grave
with his secret and his cameo hidden in his heart. He had kept both well
for two centuries, and when the heart crumbled in dust it took its
secret with it, leaving only the cameo to bewilder conjecture.

Its story was, after all, a simple one. On the southern shore of
Michillimackinac, in the romantic days of the first exploration of the
great lakes by the Courreurs de Bois and pioneer priests, had settled
good Pere Ignace, a devoted Jesuit missionary. The old man was revered
and loved by the Indians among whom he dwelt. His labors blossomed in a
little village, called from his patron saint the mission of St. Ignace,
that displayed its cluster of white huts and wigwams like the petals of
a water-lily on the margin of the lake. Just back of the village was a
round knoll which served as a landmark on the lake, for the shore near
St. Ignace was remarkably level. On the summit of this mound the good
father had reared a great white cross, and at its foot the superstitious
Indians often laid votive offerings of strongly incongruous character.
Here he had lived and taught for many years, succeeding in instructing
his little flock in the French tongue, and in at least an outward
semblance of the Catholic religion. Even the rude trappers, who came to
trade at regular intervals, revered him, and lived like good Christians
while at the mission, so as not to counteract his teaching by their
lawless example. Here Pere Ignace was growing old, and even this
grasshopper of a spiritual charge was becoming a burden. His superior,
at Montreal, understood this and sent him an assistant.

Very unlike Father Ignatius was Pere Francois Xavier, a man with all the
fire and enthusiasm of youth in his blood--just the one for daring,
hazardous enterprises; just the one to undergo all the privation and
toil of planting a mission; to undertake plans requiring superhuman
efforts, and to carry them through successfully by main force of will. A
better assistant for Father Ignatius could not have been found. It was
force, will, and intellect in the service of love and meekness; only
there was a doubt if the servant might not usurp the place of the
master, and the sway of love be not materially advanced by its new
ally. Indeed, if the truth had been known, even the Bishop of Montreal
had felt that Father Francis Xavier was too ambitious a character to
reside safely in too close proximity to himself; and engrossing
employment at a distance for him, rather than the expressed solicitude
for Father Ignatius, prompted this appointment. The results of the
following year approved the arrangement. The mission received a new
accession of life; its interests were pushed forward energetically.

Father Francis Xavier devoted himself to an acquisition of the various
Indian dialects, and to excursions among the neighboring tribes.
Converts were made in astonishing numbers, and they brought liberal
gifts to the little church from their simple possessions. Father
Ignatius had never thought to barter with the trappers and traders, but
his colleague did; large church warehouses were erected, and the mission
soon had revenues of importance. Away in the interior Father Xavier had
discovered there was a silver mine; but this discovery, for the present,
he made no attempt at exploiting. He had secured it to the church by
title deed and treaty with the chief who claimed it; had visited it and
assured himself that it would some day be very valuable, and he
contented himself with this for the present, and even managed to forget
its acquisition in his yearly report sent to Montreal. Father Francis
Xavier was something of a geologist; his father was a Florentine
jeweller, and the son had studied as his apprentice, not having at first
been destined for the church. Even after taking holy orders, Father
Francis Xavier had labored over precious stones designed for
ecclesiastical decoration. His specialty had been that of a gem
engraver, and his long white fingers were remarkably skilful and
delicate. This northern region, with all its wealth of precious stones,
was a great jewel casket for him, and he became at once an enthusiastic
collector.

Before the coming of his assistant, Father Ignatius had managed his own
simple housekeeping in all its most humble details. Now they had the
services of an Indian maid of all work, who had been brought up under
the eyes of Father Ignatius, and whom the old man regarded rather as a
daughter than as a servant. Her moccasined feet fell as silently as
those of spirits as she glided about their lodge. She never sang at her
work, and rarely spoke, but she smiled often with a smile so childlike
as to be almost silly in expression. Father Ignatius loved the silent
smile, and a word from him was always sure to bring it; but it angered
Father Francis Xavier more than many a more repulsive thing would have
done. It seemed so utterly imbecile and babyish to him, he had got so
far away from innocence and smiles and childhood himself, that the sight
of them irritated him. The young Indian girl had a long and almost
unpronounceable name. Pere Ignace had baptized her Marie, and the new
name had gradually taken the place of the old.

One day, as she was silently but dexterously putting to order the large
upper room, which served Pere Francis Xavier as study and dormitory, she
paused before his collection of agates and minerals, and stroking the
stones, said in her soft French and Indian patois, "Pretty, pretty."
Father Xavier was seated at the great open window, looking over the top
of his book away across the breezy lake. He heard the words, and knew
that she was looking at him from the corner of her eye, but his only
reply was a deeper scowl and a lowering of his glance to the printed
page. The silly smile which he felt sure was upon her face faded out,
but the girl spoke again, and this time more resolutely, determined to
attract his attention. "Pretty stones. Marie's father many more, much
prettier--much."

Father Xavier laid down his book. He was all attention. "Where did your
father get them?" he asked.

"In the mountains climb, in the mines dig, in the lake dive, he seek
them all the time summer."

"What does he do with them?"

"Cuts them like _mon pere_," and Marie imitated in pantomime the use of
the hammer and chisel. "Cut them all time winter, very many."

"What does he do that for?" asked the priest, surprised.

"All the same you," replied the girl--"make arrow-heads."

"Oh! he makes arrow-heads, does he? Mine are not arrow-heads, but I
should like to see what your father does. Does he live far from here?"

"Marie take you to-night in canoe."

"Very well, after supper."

She had often taken him out upon the lake before, for she managed their
birch-bark canoe with more skill than himself, and it was convenient to
have some one to paddle while he fished or read or dreamed. She rowed
him swiftly up the lake for several miles, then, fastening the canoe,
led the way through a trail in the forest. The sun was setting, and "the
whispering pines and the hemlocks" of the forest primeval formed a
tapestry of gloom around the paternal wigwam as they reached it. Black
Beaver, her father, reclined lazily in the door, watching the coals of
the little fire in front of his tent. He was always lazy. It was
difficult to believe that he ever climbed or dug or dived for agates as
Marie had said, so complete a picture he seemed of inaction. The girl
spoke a few words to him in their native dialect, and he grumblingly
rose, shuffled into the interior of the wigwam, and brought out two
baskets. One was a shallow tray filled with the finished heads in great
variety of material and color. There were white carnelian, delicately
striped with prophetic red, blood-stone deep- and hard as ruby,
agates of every shade and marking, flinty jasper, emerald-banded
malachite, delicate rose color, and purple ones made from shells, and
various crystals with whose names Father Francois Xavier was
unfamiliar. There was one shading from dark green through to red, only
a drop of the latter color on the very tip of the arrow where blood
would first kiss blood. Father Xavier looked at it in wondering
admiration, and at last asked Black Beaver what he called it.

"It is a devil-stone," replied the Indian. "More here," and he opened
the deeper basket in which were stored the unground and uncut stones,
and placed a superb gem in Father Xavier's hand. He had ground it
sufficiently to show that it was in two layers, white and green; in this
there was no touch of red, but in every other respect it was the
handsomer stone.

"Will you sell it to me?" asked the priest. "How much?"

The Indian smiled with an expression strangely like that of his
daughter, and put it back with alacrity in his basket, saying, "Me no
sell big devil-stone. No money buy."

"What do you mean to do with it?" asked Father Xavier.

"Make arrowhead--very hungry--no blood"; and he indicated the absence of
the red tint. "Very hungry--kill very much--never have enough!"

"Then you mean to keep it and use it yourself?"

"No," said the other. "Me no hunt game--hunt stones."

"What will you do with it?" asked the puzzled priest.

"Give it away," said Black Beaver--"give away to greatest----"

"Chief?" asked Father Xavier.

Black Beaver shook his head.

"Friend then?"

"No," grunted the arrowhead maker--"give away to big _enemy_!"

"What did he mean by that?" Father Xavier asked of Marie on their way
back to the mission. And the girl explained the superstition that
Indians of their own tribe never killed an enemy with ordinary weapons,
for fear that his soul would wait for theirs in the Happy Hunting
Grounds; but if he was shot with a devil-stone, the soul could not fly
upward, but would sink through all eternity, until it reached the
deepest spot of all the great lakes under the stony gaze of the Doom
Woman.

When he inquired further as to the whereabouts of the Doom Woman's
residence he ascertained that she was only a sharp cliff among "the
pictured rocks of sandstone" of the upper lake--a cliff that viewed from
either side maintained its resemblance to a female profile looking
sternly down at the water beneath it, which was here believed to be
unfathomable. The Doom Woman still exists. Strange to say, under its
sharp-cut features a steamer has since been wrecked and sunk, and its
expression of gloomy fate is now awfully appropriate. Marie had visited
"the great Sea Water" with her father. Nature's titanic and fanciful
frescoing and cameo cutting had strongly wrought upon her impressionable
mind, and the old legends and superstitions of paganism had been by no
means effaced by the very slight veneer of Christianity which she had
received at the mission.

From this evening Father Xavier's manner toward her changed. Her smile
no longer seemed to irritate him, and a close observer might have
noticed that she smiled less than formerly. He talked with her more,
paid closer attention to her studies, made her little presents from time
to to time, and spoke to her always with studied gentleness that was
quite foreign to his nature. And Marie watched him at work over his
stones, spent her spare time in rambling in search of those which she
had learned he liked, and laid upon his table without remark each new
discovery of quartz, or crystal, or pebble. She had been in the habit of
making little boxes which she decorated with a rude mosaic of small
shells, and Father Xavier noticed that these gradually acquired more
taste and were arranged with some eye to the harmonies of color, while
the forms were copied with Chinese accuracy from patterns on the
bindings of his books or the borders of the religious pictures. Marie
was developing under an art education which if carried far enough might
effect great things. She even managed his graving tools with a good deal
of accuracy, copying designs which he set her, until he wondered what
his father would have thought of so apt an apprentice.

Suddenly, one morning in midsummer, Marie announced that she should
leave them. Her father was going on a long expedition for stones to the
head of Lake Superior, and she did not know when she might return. As
she imparted this information she watched Father Xavier from the corner
of her eye, and something of the old childish smile reappeared as he
showed that he was really annoyed.

The summer passed profitably for the Black Beaver, and he began to think
of returning to St. Ignace with his small store of valuable stones
before the fall gales should set in. He was just a few days too late.
When within sight of Michillimackinac a storm arose driving them out
upon the open lake, and playing with their canoe as though it were a
cockle shell. When the storm abated a cloudy night had set in; no land
was visible in any direction; they had completely lost their direction,
and knew not toward which point to seek the shore. Paddling at hazard
might take them further out into the centre of the lake, and indeed they
were too worn with battling with the storm to do any more than keep the
tossed skiff from capsizing. Morning dawned wet and gray, after a
miserable night; they were drenched to the skin, and almost spent with
weariness and hunger, and now that a wan and ghostly daylight had come
they were no better for it, for an impenetrable fog shut them in on
every side. Marie and her mother began to pray. The Black Beaver sat
dogged and inert, with upturned face, regarding the sky.

The day wore by wearily; some of the time they paddled straight onward,
with sinking hearts, knowing not toward what they were going, and at
others rested with the inaction of despair. When the position of the
bright spot which meant the sun told that it lacked but an hour of
sunset, and the clouds seemed to be thickening rather than dispersing,
the Black Beaver gave a long and hideous howl. His wife and daughter
shuddered when they heard it, as would any one, for a more unearthly and
discordant cry was never uttered by man or beast; but they had double
reason to shudder; it was the death cry of their nation.

"We can never live through another night," said he, and he covered his
face with his arms.

"Father," said Marie, "try what power there is in the white man's God.
Say that you will give Him your devil-stone if He will save us now."

"The priest may have it," said the Black Beaver, and he uncovered his
face and sat up as though expecting a miracle. And the miracle came. The
sun was setting behind them, and in front, somewhat above the horizon,
the clouds parted, forming a circle about a white cross which hung
suspended in the air. They all saw it distinctly, but only for a few
moments; then the clouds closed and the vision vanished. With new hope
the little party rowed toward the spot where they had last seen it, and
through the fog they could dimly discern the outlines of the coast--they
were nearing land. A little further on, and a village was visible, which
gained a more and more familiar aspect as they approached. Night settled
down before they reached it, but ere their feet touched the land they
had recognized the mission of St. Ignace. The cross was not a vision.
The clouds had parted to show them the great white landmark and sign
which Father Ignatius had raised upon the little knoll.

The next day the Black Beaver unearthed his devil-stone, and fastening a
silver chain to it, was about to carry it away and attach it to the
cross, which was already loaded with the gifts of the little colony;
but Marie took it from his hand. "I will give it to the good priest
myself," she said. "He may see fit to place it on the image of the
Virgin in the church."

A few days later Marie placed the coveted stone in Father Xavier's hand;
but what was his bitter disappointment to find that she had marred the
exquisite thing by a rude attempt at a delineation upon it of the vision
of the cross. She had carefully chiselled away the milky white layer,
excepting on the crests of some very primitive representations of waves,
and within the awkwardly plain cross in the centre of the gem. All his
hopes of cutting a face upon this lovely jewel were crushed; it was
ruined by her unskilful work. Father Xavier was completely master of his
own emotions. He took the stone without remark, and hung it, as Marie
requested, about the neck of the Madonna. Each day as he said mass the
sight of the mutilated jewel roused within him resentful feelings
against poor, well-wishing little Marie. He had been very kind to her
since he had first seen the stone in the possession of her father, but
now it was worse than before. He avoided her markedly, for the smile
which so annoyed him still lighted her face whenever she saw him, and
there was in it a reproachful sadness which was even more aggravating
than its simple childishness had been.

One day Father Xavier in turning over his papers came across an old
etching of Venus rising from the sea. The figure, with its outstretched
arms, suggested a possibility to him. He made a careful tracing of it,
took it to the church and laid it upon the stone. All of its outlines
came within the white cross; there was still hope for the cameo. All
that winter Father Xavier toiled upon it, exhausting his utmost skill,
but never exhausting his patience. His chief trial was in the extreme
hardness of the stone, which rapidly wore out his graving tools. At last
it was finished, and Father Xavier confessed to himself, in all
humility, that he had not only never executed so delicate a piece of
workmanship, but he had never seen its equal. Every curve of the
exquisite-hued waves was studied from the swell that sometimes swept
grandly in from the lake on the long reef of rocks a few miles above St.
Ignace. The form of the goddess was modelled from his remembrance of the
Greek antique. It was a gem worthy of an emperor. What should he do with
it?

As the spring ripened into summer, ambitious thoughts flowered in Pere
Francis Xavier's soul. What a grand bishopric this whole western country
would make with its unexplored wealth of mines, and furs, and forest.
Why should he be obliged to make reports of the revenue which his own
financiering had secured to the mission, to the head at Montreal? Why
should not his reverence the Lord Bishop Francis Xavier dwell in an
episcopal palace built somewhere on these lakes, with unlimited
spiritual and temporal sway over all this country? To effect such a
scheme it would be necessary for him to see both the King of France and
the Pope. He was not sure that even if he could return to Europe
immediately, he had the influence necessary in either quarter, but the
cameo was a step in the right direction. Something of the same thought
occurred at the same time to the Bishop of Montreal. Father Xavier's
reports showed the mission to be in a flourishing condition. The first
struggles of the pioneer were over. Father Xavier must not be left in
too luxurious a position. The Chevalier La Salle was now fitting out his
little band designed to explore the lakes and follow the Mississippi
from its source to the Gulf. A most important expedition; it would be
well that the Jesuit fathers should share in the honors if it proved
successful, and if the little party perished in its hazardous
enterprise, Pere Francis Xavier could perhaps be spared as easily as any
member of his spiritual army.

And so, in the summer of 1679, the Chevalier sailed up the Lac du
Dauphin, as Lake Erie was then called, into the Lac d'Orleans, or Huron,
carrying letters in which Pere Francis Xavier was ordered to leave his
charge for a time in order to render all the assistance in his power to
the explorers. The Bishop of Montreal could never have guessed with what
heartfelt joy his command was obeyed. Father Xavier was tired of this
peaceful life, tired of "the endless wash of melancholy waves," of the
short cool summers, and long white blank of winter; tired of inaction,
of the lack of stimulating surroundings, of the gentleness of Father
Ignatius and Marie's haunting smile. Here, too, might be the very
occasion he craved of making himself famous and deserving of reward as
an explorer. It was true that he started as a subordinate, but that was
no reason that he should return in the same capacity. Marie had served
the noble guests with pleasant alacrity, passing the rainbow-tinted
trout caught as well as broiled by her own hand, and the luscious
huckleberries in tasteful baskets of her own braiding, and Tontz Main de
Fer, the chivalric companion and friend of La Salle, was moved like
Geraint, served by Enid, "to stoop and kiss the dainty little thumb that
crossed the trencher." The salutation was received with unconscious
dignity by little Marie; once only was Pere Francois Xavier annoyed by
the absence of a display of childish pleasure in an ever ready smile.

History tells how trial and privation of every kind waited on this
little band of heroic men--how hunger, and cold, and fever dogged their
steps; how the Indians proved treacherous and hostile; how, having
reached central Illinois after incredible exertion, they found
themselves in the dead of winter unable to proceed further, and
surrounded by tribes incited against them by some unknown enemy. A
fatality seemed to hang over them; suspicious occurrences indicated that
they had a traitor among their number, but he was never discovered. La
Salle did not despair or abandon the enterprise, but when six of his
most trusted men mutinied and deserted, he lost hope, and became seized
with a presentiment that he would never return from his expedition.
Father Xavier was his confidant as well as confessor, but he seems not
to have been able to disperse the gloom which settled over the leader's
mind. Perhaps he did not endeavor to do so. Hopeless but still true to
his trust, La Salle constructed near Peoria a fort which he named
Crevecoeur, in token of his despondency and disappointment. Leaving
Tontz Main de Fer in command here with the greater part of his men, he
set out with five for Frontenac, on the 2d of March, 1680, intending to
return with supplies to take command again of his party, and to proceed
southward. It was at this point that the most inexplicable event of the
entire enterprise occurred. Before the party divided _some one_
attempted to poison the Chevalier La Salle. The poison was a subtle and
slow one, similar in its effects to those used by the Borgia family; the
secret of its manufacture was thought to be unknown out of Italy.
Fortunately he had taken an under or overdose of it, and the effects
manifested themselves only in a long illness. He was too far on his
journey from Fort Heartbreak when stricken down to return to it, and was
mercifully received and nursed back to health by the friendly
Pottawottamies.

While the leader was lying sick in an Indian lodge, the knightly Tontz,
ignorant of the fate of his friend, was having his troubles at the
little fort of Heartbreak. Pere Francois Xavier had remained with him,
and aided him with counsels and personal exertions; he had made himself
so indispensable that he was now lieutenant; if anything should happen
to Tontz, he would be commander. He was secretary of the expedition,
drew careful maps, and made voluminous daily entries in a journal, which
was afterward found to be a marvel of painstaking both in the facts and
fictions which it contained. Scanty mention was there of La Salle and
Tontz Main de Fer, and much of Pere Francois Xavier, but it was clear,
explicit, depicting the advantages of an acquisition of this territory
to the crown of France in glowing terms, and strongly advising that the
man who had most distinguished himself in the difficulties of its
discovery should be appointed as governor, or baron, under the royal
authority.

While Father Xavier was compiling this remarkable piece of authorship,
the Iroquois descended in warlike array upon the somewhat friendly
disposed Illinois Indians, in whose midst Fort Crevecoeur had been
built. The suspicious Indian mind immediately connected the advent of
their enemies with the building of the fort, and regarded the little
garrison with distrust. Tontz, at the instance of Father Xavier,
presented himself to their chief, and offered to do anything in his
power to prove his friendly intentions. The chief accepted his services,
and sent him as ambassador to inquire into the cause of the coming of
the Iroquois. This mission had nearly been his last, for Tontz was
received with stabs, and hardly allowed to give the message of the
chief. His ill treatment at the hands of their enemies did not reassure
the suspicious Illinois, who ordered Tontz to immediately evacuate the
fort and return with his forces to the country whence he had come. In
his wounded condition such a journey was extremely hazardous, and it
must have been with grave doubts as to his surviving it that Father
Xavier took temporary command of the returning expedition.

It was the spring of 1681. Father Xavier had been absent nearly two
years. Father Ignatius missed him sadly--all the life and fire seemed to
have gone out of the mission. Even Marie moved about her work in a
listless, languid way, which contrasted markedly with her once lithe and
rapid movements. They had not once heard from the explorers, and Father
Ignatius shook his head sadly, and feared that he would never see his
energetic colleague again. The Black Beaver had slept through the last
months of winter, and, as with the general awakening of spring the bears
came out of their dens, and the snakes sunned themselves near their
holes, he too stretched himself lazily and awoke to a consciousness of
what was passing around him. In the first place something was amiss with
Marie. When she came to the wigwam it was not to chat merrily of the
affairs of the mission. She did not braid as many baskets as formerly,
and no longer showed him new patterns in shell mosaic on the lids of
little boxes. He was a curious old man, and he soon drew her secret from
her. Marie loved Pere Francois Xavier, and he had gone.

The Black Beaver went down to the mission one evening and had a long
talk with Father Ignatius. He ascertained first that Pere Francois
Xavier really meant to return; then, with all the dignity of an old
feudal baron, he offered Marie as a bride for his spiritual son. Very
gently the good Pere Ignace explained that Romish priests were so nearly
in the kingdom of heaven that the question of marrying and giving in
marriage was not for them to consider. The Black Beaver went home, told
no one of his visit, and for several days indulged in the worst drunken
spree of which he was capable. When he came out of it he announced to
his wife and Marie that he was going away on his annual trip for stores,
but that they need not accompany him.

Marie knelt as usual in the little church on the evening of the day on
which her father had gone away. Pere Francois Xavier had replaced the
cameo on the Virgin's breast before he went; it was a safer place than
the vault of a bank would have been, had such a thing existed in the
country. There was no one in the island sacrilegious enough to rob the
church. Marie had gazed at the stone each time that she repeated the
prayer which he had taught her. She looked up now, and it was gone.

Half-way upon their northward route, Tontz's band were struggling
wearily on when they were met by a solitary Indian, who, though he
carried a long bow, had not an unfriendly aspect. He eyed the little
band silently as they passed by him in defile, then ran after them, and
inquired if the Pere Francois Xavier, of Mission St. Ignace, was not of
their number. He was informed that the reverend father had remained a
short distance behind to write in his journal, but that he would soon
overtake them; and he was warmly pressed to remain with them if he had
messages for the priest, and give them to him when he arrived; but the
Indian shook his head and passed on in the direction in which they told
him he would be likely to meet Father Xavier. The party halted and
waited hour after hour for the priest, but he did not come. Finally two
went back in search, and found him lying upon the sod with upturned
face--the place where he had written last in his journal marked by a few
drops of his heart's blood, and the long shaft of an arrow protruding
from his breast. They drew it out, but the arrow-head had been attached,
as is the custom in some Indian tribes, by means of a soft wax, which is
melted by the warmth of the body, and it remained in the heart. Father
Xavier had been dead some hours. They buried him where they found him,
and proceeded on their march. Tontz recovered on the way. They reached
Michillimackinack in safety, where they were joined two months later by
La Salle; and the world knows the result of his second expedition.

Little Marie learned by degrees to smile again, and in after years
married another arrow-head maker, as swarthy and as shaggy as the Black
Beaver. There is no moral to my story except that of poetic justice.
Pere Francois Xavier had sown a plentiful crop of stratagems, and he
learned in the lonely forest that "Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he
also reap."

Meanwhile to all but you, my readers, the Crevecoeur cameo remains as
great a mystery as ever.

                                        LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.




MONSIEUR DELILLE.

NOTE-BOOK OF A SECRETARY OF LEGATION.


The newspapers of Berlin announced the arrival of a superior artist, the
celebrated M. Delille of the Theatre Francais de Paris, where he had
played first parts. Born and bred in the French metropolis, it was
believed he would not only open new sources of amusement to the public,
but add elegance to the French even of the highest regions. Everybody
was talking of him. His acquisition, rendered possible only by a
_differend_ with the Paris manager, was a triumph for Berlin. I was
quite curious to see him.

One day I stepped into Rey's perfumery shop to buy some cologne water.
The rooms were crowded with fashionable ladies looking over the
glittering and fragrant assortment of _savons de toilette_, _pates
d'amandes_, _huiles essentielles_, _eaux de vie aromatisees_, etc. While
making my purchase, a very handsome fellow came in who excited unusual
attention. His toilette _recherchee_, his noble but modest air made one
look at him again and again. He spoke with Rey in a voice so harmonious
and in such French as one does not hear every day even in Paris. I
heard a lady whisper to another: "Ah, voila qui est parlez Francais
(that is the way to speak French)." The stranger was certainly
_somebody_, or so many furtive glances would not have been cast at him.
I might, by inquiry, easily have ascertained who he was, but I found a
kind of pleasure in prolonging my curiosity. The Emperor Nicholas of
Russia was daily expected. He was supposed to be the handsomest man in
the world. But he was six feet two, taller than this person. The Grand
Duke of Mecklenburg-Schwerin had arrived the previous afternoon; but, it
seemed to me, no German could speak French with just that modulation.
The Prince de Joinville was expected. Perhaps it was he.

"Will you kindly give yourself the trouble to send the box to M.
Delille, Friedrich strasse 30?"

Ah ha! _Le voila!_ There was my man. Strange I had not thought of him.

I had a season ticket at the French theatre for the purpose of learning
French, and I had been as much entertained as instructed (I mean
instructed in the language). Every one knows a Frenchman can infuse airy
elegance into a button, bestow a marketable value upon a straw, breathe
_esprit_ into a feather, and make ten dishes out of a nettle-top. So the
poet can transform any incident into an attractive vaudeville. The
tender _situation dramatique_, the humorous _coup de theatre_, _the jeu
d'esprit_ sparkling up into music, the elevated sentiment, the merciless
exposure of vice and folly, the purest and noblest morality, largely
mixed with an ostentatious ridicule of every sacred truth, and an
absolute disregard of every principle of decency and duty, give strange
glimpses into French social life.

As a school for the French student, however, the theatre is a useful
institution. For French has got to be learned somehow or other. A
dancing master of my acquaintance used always to commence his course by
a short address to his class in which he remarked: "Mesdemoiselles! La
chose la plus importante du monde c'est la danse!" (the most important
thing in the world is dancing.) Perhaps he was right. In that case I
must add that the next most important thing in the world is the French
language; at least to a foreigner on the continent of Europe. Without
that you do not know anything. You are a straw man. You are a deaf and
dumb creature. Ladies gaze at you with compassion, gentlemen with
contempt, children with wonder, while waiters quiz you, cheat you, and
make the imaginary mill behind your back.

Impressed with the inconvenience of this position, I had long ago
commenced a siege of the French language. I studied it _a fond_. I
looked into every _y_ and _en_. I had attended the French theatre as a
school, and profited by the performances. The company was excellent,
particularly one young girl, Mlle. Fontaine. Her playing was
unsurpassable. She knew always when to go on and when to stop. Perfect
simplicity, a taste never at fault, delightful humor, a high tragic
power; to these add a lovely face, a beautiful form, grace in every
movement, a voice just as sweet as a voice could be, and you have a dim
idea of Mlle. Fontaine. In her private life, moreover, she enjoyed the
reputation of being without reproach. The whole world repeated of her
the old saying: "Elle n'a qu'un defaut, celui de mettre de l'esprit
partout!" (She has but one fault: she touches nothing without importing
to it a charm of her own.)

When M. Delille came out, Mlle. Fontaine and he generally played
together, amid thundering plaudits of overflowing audiences. Delille
himself was a perfect artist. The French theatre was in its glory.

One morning, hard at work in my office, I was surprised by a card,
"Monsieur Delille, du Theatre Francais." The gentleman wished to have
the honor of a few moments' conversation.

The theatre and all the various personages of its imaginary world were
so completely apart from my real life, that I could scarcely have been
more surprised at receiving a card from Louis XIV., or hearing that the
General Napoleon Bonaparte was waiting at the door, and desired the
honor of my acquaintance.

M. Delille entered, hat in hand, with bow and smile, as I had so often
seen him do in the theatre drawing-rooms. We had a pleasant chat. He
spoke no English, which forced upon me the necessity of exhibiting my
dazzling French. He complimented me upon it. I told him it was
principally owing to himself and to Mlle. Fontaine. This brought out the
object of his visit. He was going to be married. He had been in America,
which emboldened him to consider himself in some sort my countryman, and
to request the honor of my presence at the ceremony.

"And the lady?"

"_Monsieur_," he said, "_peut-on douter_? (can you doubt?) Mlle.
Fontaine! You are to come to the French church at 3. You will, then,
will you not, do us the honor to dine at our lodgings, Friedrich
strasse, No. 30?"

I returned his own answer:

"Monsieur, peut-on douter?"

At the hour appointed I was at the church. I found quite an
assembly--artists, painters, sculptors, actors, critics, poets,
newspaper writers, several members of the corps diplomatique, some
officers, a few gentlemen of the court, etc.

The bride and groom appeared very simply attired. Their deportment was
perfect. The ceremony was impressive. In a short time the holy bands had
made them one. There was no acting about either of them. M. Delille was
pale; Mademoiselle still paler. Their emotion was obviously genuine.
Some folks think when actors tremble or shed tears, it must be only
acting; and that they can get married or die as easily in the world as
on the stage. This is a mistake. Getting really married is as serious a
step to them as to you; and they know that real dying is a very
different thing from those exits which they make at the end of the
tragedy. They struggle with life, and walk forward toward death just as
do their fellow-creatures, who preach from the pulpit, speak in the
Senate, or congregate on the exchange. The rich banker; the
self-important diplomat; the general, covered with orders; the minister,
who holds the helm of state; the emperor, the queen, who deign to honor
the representation with their presence, smile when they behold
themselves reflected on the stage. But there is not so much difference,
as they are pleased to suppose, between themselves and their theatre
colleagues. Shakespeare says:

             All the world's a stage,
   And all the men and women merely players.

The question is, which of these men and women are the best? Perhaps the
theatre statesman would have administered the affairs of his country
with more wisdom; the dramatic banker would have made his money more
honestly and used it with greater discretion; the stage general would
have conducted the war with more humanity and success; and the senators,
in "Julius Caesar" and "Damon and Pythias," would have been less open to
bribery and corruption than the gentlemen who have really occupied
similar positions in the world. Perhaps, if M. Delille had been Admiral
Blank, he would have looked at his chart, and not run his ship upon that
rock in the Mediterranean on a clear summer morning. Perhaps, if Mme.
Delille had been Empress of France, she would not have striven quite so
hard to bring on the last war with Prussia.

From the church to the lodgings of Monsieur and Madame Delille. On
passing through the entrance, in Berlin generally a way for horses and
carriages, you would scarcely expect such elegant apartments. The moment
you crossed the threshold you were in another world. Everything rich,
tasteful, new; the walls superbly papered; the woodwork painted like
snow and varnished like a mirror: Brussels carpet, then not over-common
in the richest houses; lounges, _chaises longues_, sofas, divans; a
strong smell of Russia binding from splendid volumes on the table, and
gleaming from mahogany book-cases; beautiful paintings and engravings; a
lavish display of clocks on tables and writing-desks; one, looking down
from a loftier pedestal, clicked audibly the seconds and struck the
quarters with a solemn sound, like the booming of some far-off old
cathedral bell hanging in the clouds. Everything told of the new married
man: everything new, bright, unexceptionable, faultless, perfect--like
the new wife, the new husband, the new affection, the new hopes, yet
unexposed to the wear and tear of years.

I was among the first. My host and hostess awaited their guests.
Mademoiselle--I beg her pardon--madame received me with graceful
cordiality. The company immediately began to appear, principally
performers whose faces I had never seen before, except on the stage,
associated with incidents, words, actions, intrigues, and scenes of the
poet's imagination. I enjoyed as if I had been a boy, recognizing the
various characters whose pranks, joys, and sorrows I had followed with
so much interest: the wicked "jeune homme a la mode," the bewitching
"femme de chambre," the _vieux_ "general sous l'empire," the rich
_banquier de Paris_, the handsome, dangerous _guardien_, the naughty
husband who had exclaimed, "Ciel ma femme!" the jealous lover, the
hard-hearted landlord, and the _comique_ of the troupe, upon whose
mobile face I could scarcely look without laughing when he asked me:
"Voulez-vous bien avoir la bonte de passer le sel?" There were present
several from the court: the Marquis de B----, who in private theatricals
at the King's had distinguished himself; M. le Comte de S----, supposed
to be a little _impressionne_ by Mlle. Zoe, the last successful
debutante, and now among the guests.

Mme. Delille looked like a lady born, and did the honors of her house
like one. The servant announced the dinner, and we adjourned to the
dining-room.

The dinner was _on ne peut pas mieux_. I sat between the lady of the
house and Mlle. Zoe. One of the French arts is that of placing people at
ease in society. It is not uncommon to meet persons not wanting in
intelligence, yet who, unless you draw them out, will simply remain in
the whole evening. My charming neighbors drew me out immediately. They
possessed a magnetism which made talking, and in one's best style, as
easy as flying to a bird. Mlle. Zoe said a great many brilliant and
surprising things; but Mme. Delille's manners and conversation were far
superior. I found in her a thoughtful, cultivated, balanced mind,
inspiring genuine esteem. I was struck by her views of political events
and characters. She touched lightly and skilfully upon various
personages with wisdom and humor, but with charity. She referred to her
own position in life as an actress in a way which interested me
extremely, and she found opportunity amid the miscellaneous conversation
to relate her history, and how she came to adopt a profession contrary
to her taste; and a more touching story I never heard. The conversation
even ascended to higher subjects. I was not a little astonished to find
in a young and universally flattered French actress a noble-minded,
superior woman, who had suffered deeply, and thought seriously and
spiritually upon subjects generally considered irreconcileable with her
profession.

The dinner was finished; the nuts and the jokes were cracked; the cafe,
the chasse-cafe, the enigmas, the conundrums, the anecdotes, the songs,
the _tableaux-vivants_ followed each other. My amiable hostess seemed to
think I must have had enough of it, and, with her graceful
acquiescence, I stole out after a confidential pantomimic leave-taking
with her and my host.

I became subsequently well acquainted with Monsieur and Madame Delille,
and have seldom known more interesting persons. Occasionally they
invited me to a quiet family dinner, where I always met one or two
distinguished guests; and sometimes I had the pleasure of having them at
my house in a quiet way. They both rose more and more in my esteem the
more I observed their inner life and character. As years rolled on, my
visits were enlivened by the sight of small drums, trumpets, horses with
their tails pulled out, and dolls with their noses knocked off.
Sometimes very pretty little cherubs peeped in at the door, or were
invited for half an hour to the dinner table.

The world went on with its ways. More than one throne was vacated and
filled anew. Great knotty questions of diplomacy rose and disappeared.
Mehemet Ali, M. Thiers, the King of Hanover, Metternich, the Chartist,
the anti-corn law league, Sir Robert and Mr. Cobden filled the
newspapers. Nations growled at each other like bulldogs, and we had wars
and rumors of wars a plenty.

One day who should come in but Monsieur and Madame Delille, the very
picture of a perfectly happy man and wife. They came to bid me good-by.
He had made his fortune, wound up his affairs with the theatre, and
abandoned his profession for ever. Madame was at the summit of earthly
felicity. She spoke with inexpressible delight of the change in her
life. She had longed so often to quit the theatre, and now at last her
dream was realized. M. Delille was going to buy a cottage in the south
of France, and to be perfectly happy with his dear wife and four
children. Amid oranges, lemons, and grapes, beneath the blue summer sky,
surrounded by flowers, the waves of the beautiful Mediterranean breaking
at his feet, he intended to pass the rest of his days in unclouded
peace and joy. He had worked all his life, and now he was going to take
his reward.

"But," said I, "did you say _four_ children?"

"_Mais oui!_ I have four.

"Why, it seems but yesterday that----"

"_Comptez donc!_ Six years and six months."

His picture of future felicity was very bright. I thought in my heart
that such plans of retirement were--but I suppressed my sermon and
congratulated him upon his prospects. Why should I disturb his happiness
even though it might be a dream? What but a dream would have been even
the realization of all his hopes?

We parted after embracing like old friends. I had more respect for those
two than I had for a great many whose sonorous titles did not cover
qualities half so estimable, manners half so agreeable, characters half
so pure, or a sense of religion half so true and deep.

The French theatre declined after the departure of Monsieur and Madame
Delille. I had entirely ceased attending or taking any interest in it.

Two years passed, when one day, in a lonely part of the Thiergarten, I
met--whom do you think? M. Delille; but pale, sad, solitary, subdued.

"Well, here I am again," said he. "All my fine dreams have disappeared.
I won't bore you with the story. The fact is--that is to say--one can
never count upon one's plans in this world. I have lost my fortune, and
accepted an invitation to become director of the Berlin French theatre.
I am to form a new company. There is a great opposition to this, and the
matter has raised up against me furious enemies. They accuse me of
everything base. You know me. You know I would not be guilty of anything
dishonorable."

I looked into his sad, ingenuous face, and replied:

"I am sure you would not."

"Oh, I thank you. But the worst remains to be told. My wife--my poor,
dear wife--who had been my consolation in all this trouble! _Pauvre
Marie!_ she is very ill, and I was obliged to leave her in Paris, or to
lose all our prospects. She would have it so. This annoys me. This makes
me unhappy. With her I am proof against all troubles. Ah, monsieur, you
do not know my Marie. The most faithful, the most gentle, the purest,
the----"

"But is she so dangerously ill?"

"I hope not. I think not. She will be here in a few weeks. The doctor
has given me his _word of honor_."

A couple of months more. A series of articles, in the mean time,
appeared in the newspapers against M. Delille and the new French theatre
government. The venomous shafts were launched by an able hand. Gall is
sweet compared with them. An actor is the most sensitive of human
beings. His reputation is his all. The personal malice and interest of
the writer were obvious, but the public were too busy to examine. The
crowd enjoy a battle, without caring much about the right.

I met M. Delille a few days after the appearance of the fifth of these
articles, and expressed my indignation. His manner of viewing the
subject was really noble and more instructive to me than many a sermon.
He spoke temperately of the _desagrement_ of his position and the wisdom
of keeping on his way calmly. "An actor," he said, "is a public target.
Every one has the right to shoot at him. I cannot always forget, but I
try to forgive."

"And your wife?"

His face darkened.

"Oh, I am weary. She does not get well. She lingers on. She is not
strong enough to come to me. I cannot go to her. She will not consent.
They would declare I had run away. Her short letters are full of
encouragement and consolation. Ah, if these men knew--but we must be
patient. The doctor positively assures me she is doing very well."

Three weeks later I was again taking a walk through the Thiergarten,
wrapped in my cloak, for it was winter, when I perceived M. Delille
sitting on a quite wet bench. His face was very pale. I never saw a
sadder expression. Hoping to rally him, I said:

"What a melancholy countenance! What a brown study! Come, I have arrived
in time to laugh to you and of it!"

His face did not reply to my gayety. He asked after my health.

"But you are sitting on a wet, snowy bench. You will take cold."

"No, I shall not take cold."

"And how," said I, "is your----"

I paused, for I now for the first time remarked a black crape on his
hat.

He perceived my embarrassment and relieved me.

"My children?"

I was silent.

"They are very well, I thank you--they are very well."

"Come," added he, with an effort, after covering his eyes a moment with
his hand, "what have we now? Is there _really_ to be a war?"

                                        THEODORE S. FAY.




INFLUENCES.


   The southern bird, which, swift in airy speed,
     Toward ruder regions wings its careless way,
   Wafts from its plumage oft a floating seed,
     Unheeded relic of some tropic day.

   And lo! a wonder! on the spot beneath
     The tiny germ asserts its mystic power;
   With sudden bloom illumes the rugged heath,
     And bursts at once to fragrance, light, and flower.

   All the sad woodland flushes at the sight:
     The brook, which murmured, sparkles now, and sings:
   The cowslips watch, with yearning, strange delight,
     The bird which shed such glories from its wings,

   Watching it hover onward free and far;
     Breathing farewell with restless doubt and pain.
   What were a heaven with but one only star?
     Must this be all? Will it not come again?

   While the new lily, lonely in her pride,
     Sighing through silver bells, repeats the strain,
   Longing for sister blossoms at her side,
     And whispering soft, Will it not come again?

                                        CHARLES CARROLL.




DRIFT-WOOD.




THE TWELVE-MONTH SERMON.


The year's end is traditionally the season for moralizing and
retrospect. _Eheu! fugaces anni_ is a sigh that even the Latin primer
teaches us; and though in schoolbook days calling the years fugacious
seems absurd, we catch the meaning as they glide away. To schoolboys the
man of fifty is immoderately old: thirty marks a milestone on the
downhill of life. People whom we looked upon as of great antiquity, in
childhood, turn out to have been mere striplings. I saw "old Kent"
yesterday after the lapse of thirty years, and protest he was younger
than when he rapped sepulchral silence from his resounding desk. "How
are you, Quilibet First?" he said, quite in the ancient way; he seemed
once more to brandish the ferrule on his awful throne.

Boys always call schoolmasters and sextons "old," irrespective of their
years. Clerks in the shop style their employer "the old gentleman"
without meaning to impute antiquity. Gray-haired diggers and pounders
speak of their overseer as "the old man," even though he be a
rosy-cheeked youth of two-and-twenty. Lexicographers should look to
this. "Old" evidently means sometimes "having independent authority,"
and does not necessarily signify either lack of freshness or being
stricken in years. Thus Philip Festus Bailey's dictum, that "we live in
deeds, not years," is borne out by common parlance, and future
Worcesters and Websters must make a note of it.

Whoever, also, reaches a fixed position of authority, seems (rightly
enough, as the world goes) to have achieved success in life. This
measurement of success by the kind of occupation one follows begins with
us in short clothes. Mary's ambition is to be "either a milliner, a
queen, or a cook;" the ideal of Augustus is a woodchopper, killing bears
when they attack him at his work, and living in a hut. The sons of
confectioners must be marvels if they grow up alike unspoiled in morals
by the universal envy of comrades, and unspoiled in teeth by the
parental sugar-plums. People of older growth attach childish importance
to the trade one plies. Nobs and nabobs (at least on the stage)
disinherit daughters offhand for marrying grocers, and groan over sons
who take to high art. The smug and prudent citizen shudders at the
career of the filibuster, while the adventurer would commit suicide
rather than achieve a modest livelihood in tape and needles. The mother
of Sainte Beuve was sorely distressed at his pursuit of literature, a
career that she reckoned mere vagabondage, despite his brilliant feats
in it, until the day he was elected to the French Academy, and thereby
became entitled to $300 a year. "Then my mother was a little reassured;
thenceforth, _j'avais une place_."

When the close of the year sets us to reckoning up how much we have made
of life, pray what is that "success" of which we all talk so glibly? It
is plainly a standard varying according to each man's taste and
temperament, his humility or vanity, and shifting as his life advances.
What to the Bohemian is success to the Philistine is stark failure. The
anchoret looks on this sublunary sphere as one of sighing, the attorney
as one of suing--there being all that difference betwixt law and gospel.
Sixty years cannot see life through the eyes of sixteen. When men,
fearing to measure themselves, seek the judgment of their fellows,
adulation or affection may lead astray. In the year's retrospect of
science, touching the solar eclipse it is said: "Cape Flattery is our
northwestern cape, and there occurred the largest obscuration of the sun
in the United States." "Cape Flattery," I fear, is the locus of largest
obscuration for the United States every year, and was particularly so in
the past twelvemonth of jubilee and gratulation; and what the mantle of
flattery is for the sunlight of truth in the nation it is in the
individual. In politics, at any rate, the centennial year is closing
with some reproof of our all-summer conceit. Our frame of government is
not so flawless as we fancied; the pharisaic contrast we drew between
our politics and those of other nations is no longer so effective.

And with men as with nations, a ray of clear light reveals the shams and
shortcomings of what is hastily styled success. The pushing, elbowing
fellow gets ahead in the struggle of life, but his success is a
questionable one. The bargaining man, who, partly by instinct and partly
by practice, judges everything from the point of view, "How is that
going to affect me?" will no doubt make money. Even his most
disinterested advice pivots on the thought, "What will pay me best?" as
the magnet surely wheels to the pole. But when all is done, to have
achieved this artistic perfection of self-seeking is a sorry account to
give of life.

Thus, the very successes on which we plume ourselves are sometimes
badges of disaster, as we ourselves may secretly know if others do not.
"When one composes long speeches," says Jarno, "with a view to shame his
neighbors, he should speak them to a looking-glass." If not a hypocrite
or a vain man, he may find himself blushing at the thought _de me fabula
narratur_. The only alteration that our satire on others may require is
to change the name of the folly or fault we lash, and then the stripes
will be merited by ourselves. The other day Temple and I listened to a
discourse of the Rev. Dr. Waddell of St Magdalen's on the perils of
novel-reading. I think the worthy doctor really refrains from that sin;
he is certainly severe on those who are given to it. "That fat man,"
said Temple, as we strolled away from St. Magdalen's sanctuary, "is too
greedy, too gluttonous to listen to any cry but that of his own stomach.
His god is his belly. His indifference to the sufferings of others
amounts to a disease."

"What disease do you call it?" I asked.

"Fatty degeneration of the heart," replied Temple, with a laugh. On the
other hand, quite shocked at people who "make pigs" of themselves, is
Mrs. Pavanne, who starves her stomach to beautify her back, and who, I
assure you, would prefer after three days' fasting a new boiled silk and
trimmings to any similarly treated leg of mutton and capers.

Grundy is a model of social demeanor and domesticity, but occasionally
cheats in a bargain wherever it is safe; Gregory, honest as the day,
gets tipsy. Let Gregory remember his own weakness before scorning
Grundy, and let Grundy respect the good in Gregory before holding him up
to disgrace. The question is often not whether X is a saint and Y a
Satan, but rather what road a man's indulgence takes. Is it body or
spirit that rules him--his fear, lust, vanity, gluttony, surliness, or
sloth? his humility, generosity, piety, sense of justice, sense of duty?
Is his cardinal weakness a vice or only a foible--a crime that degrades
or only a pettiness that narrows him?

If we hold with Scripture that he who ruleth his spirit is greater than
he that taketh a city, we must not give all the laurels of success to
the mighty, wealthy, witty, and renowned. Poor John Jones, the clerk
yonder at a thousand a year, if we reckon at anything gentleness,
courage, simplicity, devotion to mother, wife, and babes, has made as
great a success of life as old Rollin Ritchie, the head of the house.
You would imagine a first use of wealth to be the liberty to pick at
will one's employees and allies, one's friends and agents, to repel the
dishonest and rebuke the impudent, dealing with those whom one chooses
to deal with, where personal choice can fairly be exercised; but such a
privilege is Utopian in business, even among men of fortune, and envied
Ritchie has little more freedom than humble Jones. Besides, the pursuit
of startling success, though it often ruins possibilities of
contentment, rarely creates them. Frederic Soulie, having had the
misfortune to gain $16,000 in one year by his pen, refused a government
place at $3,000, with leisure to write an occasional play or a novel; he
was eager to produce half a dozen plays and novels in a twelvemonth,
says a biographer, and to repeat his $16,000; and he died of work and
watching in two years more.

We are not, in these kindly Christmas days, to cynically deny to
unpromising careers all power of recovery. Temple was telling me the
other day of this instance known to him: Honorius had an exceedingly
dissolute son, who pursued his vicious courses almost unchecked by
parental rein, until he seemed to think his iniquities the rather
fostered than forbidden. But one day a friend of both questioned the
father why he allowed his son such abused license? "Sir," replied he,
"if my son chooses to go to the devil, as he is now fast going, he alone
must take the consequences." The conversation being reported to our
young rake, he was so affected by the view of his responsibility, which
he now appreciated for the first time, as to turn back toward the way of
virtue. And as before he had conceived his father in some sort liable
for those scandalous excesses, so now, being driven from that strange
error, he chooses for himself the path of honor and usefulness.

In judging unsuccessful lives, too, we need to make large allowance for
the unknown elements of fortune. "It is fate," says the Greek adage,
"that bringeth good and bad to men; nor can the gifts of the immortals
be refused." But we can find justification for charitable judgments
without resorting to this general theory. We discover one youth, who
promised well, ruined by a bad choice of profession, while a second, who
selected well, finds the immediate problem in life to be not personal
eminence, but providing for a wife and half a dozen children: and if he
does fitly provide for them, pray, why set down his life, however pruned
of its first ambitious pinions, as a failure?

So, finally, our unaspiring old-year homily simply chimes in with the
traditional spirit of Christmastide--season of hopeful words and wishes,
of kindness for the struggling, of encouragement for the discouraged, of
charity for the so-called failures.




RIBBONS AND CORONETS AT MARKET RATES.


It is said that a Yankee has arranged to furnish foreign titles
(warranted genuine) of "earl or count for $10,000; European orders, from
$250 to $10,000; membership in foreign scientific and literary
societies, $250 and upward." The story is plausible. Impecunious princes
and potentates have been known to replenish their purses in this way,
though hitherto usually by private sale rather than market quotations.
It is not probable that our ingenious countryman has the Order of the
Seraphim or of the Annonciade at disposal, or that he can supply the
Golden Fleece to whoever will "gif a good prishe," or even that he
would pretend to furnish the Black Eagle of Prussia in quantities to
suit purchasers. He can hardly be the medium of creating many Knights of
the Garter, nor can the Bath or the St. Michael and St. George very well
be in his list of decorations "to order." But we know from the Paris and
Vienna fairs that a Cross of the Legion is obtainable by Americans of
the mercantile class; and as for the Lion and the Sun, it was an order
created by some bygone shah for the express purpose of rewarding
strangers who had rendered service to Persia; and what service more
substantial, pray, than helping to fill the Persian purse? When you come
to central and southern Europe, titles are going a-begging, and hard-up
princelets will presumably be eager to raise the wind with them.

And there will be buyers as well as sellers. To the democratic mind a
royal star or ribbon is an object of befitting reverence. None of our
countrymen would, indeed, on purchasing a title, really ask to be
addressed as "Your lordship," or even to be familiarly called Grand
Forester or Sublime Bootjack to His Serene Highness--unless in private,
by some very much indulged servitor or judicious retainer. But though
the badge of nobility may not be worn in the streets by the happy
purchaser, for fear of attracting a rabble of the curious, he can fondly
gaze upon it in the privacy of home, or try it on for the admiration of
the domestic circle, or haply submit it to the inspection of discreet
friends.

The case is different with the "bogus diploma" trade. Business and not
vanity is doubtless the ruling motive with the foreigners who strut in
plumage bought of the Philadelphia "university." The diploma of M. D. is
worth its price for display before the eyes of the patients waiting in
the "doctor's" office, while to Squeers of Dotheboys Hall the degree of
A. M. is good for at least three new pupils, and Ph. D. for a dozen. I
presume that in some of the foreign magazines and weekly newspapers of a
certain class, D. D. or L.L. D. has a real cash value of at least five
per cent. more in pay, or perhaps it may turn the scale in favor of an
article which, without that honorary signature, might be put in the
waste-paper basket. So long as such practical results can be had the
diploma trade is likely to flourish, with full variety offered to
buyers.

Now, it is not impossible to turn to trade account an Order of the
Elephant, of the Iron Crown, of the Legion of Honor, or of the
Medjidieh, as probably shrewd mechanics,contractors, and tradesmen in
America and England can attest. But while this is an additional
inducement to buyers, I am sure the new industry appeals to a loftier
emotion than that of mere money-making. America, in fact, is ripe for
this improvement. The modern phrase of ambition here in America is
"social status;" and dealers in heraldry are doing a business so
thriving in coats of arms for seal rings and scented note-paper, that I
fancy it is this that has suggested the trade in noble titles. The
village of Podunk looks down on the neighboring town of Hardscrabble.
"Hardscrabble," say the scornful Podunkers, "plumes itself on its
wealth, but Podunk prides herself on her birth--on her extremely old
families!" In fact you find all over the republic people talking of
their aristocratic families, and their "refined neighborhood," and
"refined birth"--even where, after all, it may be only a case of refined
petroleum.

Here, then, is the sphere and the opportunity for the enterprising
middleman. He appeals to a tuft-hunting instinct so deep in human nature
that the mere surface difference of republic or monarchy hardly touches
it. In a London church you will see a pew full of ladies' maids, and
presently there is a great crowding and squeezing, and a low whisper of
"make room for Lady Philippa." It is only another lady's maid joining
her friends; but they all get titles by reflection. Turn from this scene
to the New York area steps, and the artful little rascal who is peddling
strawberries, says to Bridget, who answers the bell, "Have some berries,
_lady_?" knowing that this will make a market, if anything can. The fact
is, we all like to be "Colonel" and "Deacon" and "Doctor," instead of
simple Jones, Brown, and Robinson; calling us "the judge" or "alderman"
is a perpetual titillation of a pleasant feeling. "Good morning, Mr.
Secretary," or, "I hope you are very well, State Senator," is a greeting
that carries a kind of homage with it; and from that you go upward in
titular recognition of official eminence until you come to "His Great
Glorious and most Excellent Majesty, who reigns over the Kingdoms of
Thunaparanta and Tampadipa and all the Umbrella-Bearing Chiefs of the
Eastern Country, the King of the Rising Sun, Lord of the Celestial
Elephants, Master of Many White Elephants, the Great Chief of
Righteousness, King of Burmah."

_Macte virtute_ I would say, then, to the peddlers of stars, crosses,
garters, and A. S. S.'s. There are poverty-stricken principalities and
hard-up beys and khedives enough to find ribbons for a thousand American
buttonholes, and to turn ten thousand of our exemplary fellow citizens
to chevaliers. An envious public sentiment might prevent the wearing of
all the ribbons and crosses that a liberal man of means could buy; but
decorations, like doorplates, are "so handy to have in the house." The
centennial year, by bringing to our shores a shoal of titled personages,
has presumably whetted the appetite of our people for heraldic
distinctions. But for years before we had even the village tailor
appearing occasionally in the local newspaper as Sir Knight Shears, and
the apothecary as Most Worthy Grand Commander and Puissant Potentate
Senna. If it is pleasant for Bobby Shears and Sammy Senna to be knighted
by their cronies and customers, how much more agreeable to the American
mind a decoration and investiture from a real prince!

The possibilities, to be sure, are limited. Aristocratic exclusiveness
confines the Garter to twenty-five persons, the Order of the Thistle is
only for Scotch nobles, and the Iron Cross of Savoy is purely Italian;
military or naval services are required for the St. George of Russia and
the Victoria Cross; and it is to be feared that some sort of illustrious
services would be needed even for the Leopold of Belgium, the Iron Cross
of Prussia, the St. James of Spain, or the Tower and Sword of Portugal.
But in the little principalities of Germany, where the people are
ravenous for titular distinctions, there is a large supply; and as, in
fine, there are said to be sixscore orders of chivalry scattered over
both Christian and Mussulman lands, a wealthy aspirant may not despair
of reaching one or two of them without the pangs of knight errantry.

                                        PHILIP QUILIBET.




SCIENTIFIC MISCELLANY.




COMPLICATIONS OF THE CHANNEL TUNNEL.


Baron von Weber, a distinguished English engineer, predicts that the
Channel tunnel between England and France, if constructed, will be the
cause of great annoyance to English railway managers, and bring forward
some very acute observations in support of this opinion.

_The English railway system was a world of its own_; it was an insular
world which could hardly have been more peculiar if it had belonged to
another quarter of the globe altogether. All this, however, will change
as soon as the tunnel is pierced between England and the Continent.

_England will then no longer be an island, but a peninsula_, and
although the isthmus which connects it with the Continent will be
submarine, its effect on the railway system will be exactly the same as
if it were a natural one.

If the importance of the object to be attained by the Channel tunnel is
to bear any rational proportion at all to the means required, the tunnel
will be constructed only if a very considerable goods traffic between
the two shores is expected, besides the large passenger traffic. Such a
traffic, which would have to compete with sea carriage, is only possible
for goods if shifting the loads is completely avoided, and the wagons
and trucks can run from England far into the Continent and _vice versa_.
Now the English exports to the Continent far exceed the imports from it.
The English trucks, therefore, loaded with rails, machines, coals,
cotton goods, etc., will, after passing the tunnel, be scattered far and
wide on the continental railways (whose length exceeds threefold that of
the whole British system), and will have to run distances five times as
great as from London to the Highlands.

The English railway companies, who are now able to follow their rolling
stock almost with the naked eye, who know exactly how long each truck
will take to run the short distances in their island, who can,
therefore, provide proper loads both for the up and down journeys,
hence making the best use of their stock, and who are always aware in
whose hands their trucks are, will suddenly see a great number of them
disappear out of their sight and beyond their control on long journeys
and unknown routes. They will no longer be able to calculate, even
approximately, when the stock will return. England will therefore lose
an important percentage of its rolling stock, which will be but
incompletely replaced by the foreign wagons, which will remain in
England a much shorter time on account of the shorter distances. The
deficiency will have to be made up at considerable expense. The stock
will travel as far as the shores of the Black and Egean seas, to the
east coast of the Baltic, to the southernmost point of Italy, and to the
Pyrenees; it will pass over the lines of a dozen or more foreign
companies, be brought under the influence of three or four different
legislatures, police regulations, by-laws, Government inspections, etc.,
and where three or four different languages are officially in use.

Quite new legal obligations and intricacies will appear if the companies
having to forward goods direct into foreign countries send their wagons
into the territories of different jurisdictions. It will not be of much
use if the English companies attempt formally to confine their
transactions to the French railway which joins theirs. Claims from
Turkish, Russian, Austrian, Italian, German, Belgian, and French
railways will still be brought against them, in some cases requiring
direct and immediate communication.




A TOWN OF DWARFS.


A writer in the London "Times" describes the effect of excessive
intermarriage on the inhabitants of Protes, a little town in the
province of Santander, Spain. Until eighteen or nineteen years ago, the
village was quite shut off from the rest of the world. Its inhabitants,
from their ever-recurring intermarriages, had become quite a race of
dwarfs. On market days the priests might be seen, with long black coats
and high black hats, riding in to purchase the simple provision for the
week's consumption--men of little intelligence and no learning, sprung
from the lowest ranks. About eighteen years ago the Galician laborers,
or Gallegos, from the mines of Galicia, swarmed into the town for
lodgings, etc., and since their colonization the population has
increased in strength, stature, education, intellect, and morality.
Their intellects, also, have improved--intellects which had been
stunted, dwarfed, and ruined by their frequent intermarriages.




WHOOPING COUGH.


According to Dr. Sturges, an English physician, whooping cough is not
always to be escaped by preventing contagion, for at a certain age the
disposition toward this disease is so great that the child will
originate it. He says: "Whooping cough is a nervous disease of immature
life, due immediately, like nervous asthma, to a morbid exaltation of
sensibility of the bronchial mucous membrane. Although possible in a
modified form at all ages, it has its period of special liability and
full development simultaneously with that time of life when the nervous
system is irritable and the mechanism of respiration diaphragmatic. A
child of the proper age with catarrh and cough is thus on the very brink
of whooping cough. A large proportion of such children will develop the
disease for themselves upon casual provocation, all contagion and all
epidemic influence apart." Therefore he does not think contagion plays
the important part generally supposed, and the assumption of a specific
morbid poison is in his opinion entirely gratuitous. As to treatment he
says:

"The specific remedies for whooping cough (which have their season and
may be said now to include all drugs whatever of any potency) have all
of them a certain testimony in their favor. They agree in a single
point: whether by their nauseousness, the grievous method of their
application, or the disturbance they bring to the child's habits and
surroundings, the best vaunted remedies--emetics, sponging of the
larynx, ill-flavored inhalation, change of scene, beating with the
rod--all are calculated to _impress_ the patient, and find their use
accordingly.




BRITISH ASSOCIATION NOTES.


The committee appointed to test experimentally Ohm's law, that with any
conductor the electromotive force is proportioned to the current
produced, reports that this law is absolutely correct. If a conductor of
iron, platinum, or German silver of one square centimetre in section has
a resistance of one ohm for infinitely small currents, its resistance
when acted on by an electromotive force of one volt (provided its
temperature is kept the same) is not altered by so much as the millionth
of a millionth part. This fine result is the more gratifying since Ohm's
law is entirely empirical and does not rest at all upon logical
deduction.

The vast amount of water circulating through the solid earth is shown by
the calculations of the committee on the underground waters of the
Permian and New Red sandstones.

Taking an average rainfall of 30 inches per annum, and granting that
only 10 inches percolate into the rock, the supply of water stored up by
the Permian and New Red formations was estimated by the committee to
amount to 140,800,000 gallons per square mile per year. This rate would
give, for the 10,000 square miles covered by the formations, in Great
Britain, 1,408,000,000,000 gallons. Only a very small proportion of this
amount is made available for the supply of cities and towns.

The subject of the chemical constitution of matter was taken up by Mr.
Johnstone Stoney, F. R. S., who amused and interested the chemical
section by a number of drawings of tetrahedra, octahedra, etc., on to
which he dexterously stuck representations of oxygen atoms, chlorine
atoms, and so on. His general endeavor seemed to be to convince his
auditors that in most basic salts oxygen is divalent, being in direct
combination with the acidifying constituent of the molecule, but that
when oxygen is not so directly related to this constituent in basic
salts it is tetravalent.

In the geological section, Dr. Bryce observed that there are two lines
along which earthquakes are commonly observed in Scotland, the one
running from Inverness, through the north of Ireland, to Galway bay, and
the other passing east and west through Comrie. The phenomena of
earthquakes in the latter district are now being systematically
observed and recorded, under the direction of a committee appointed by
the British Association, seismometers being employed on the two
principles of vertical pendulum and delicately poised cylinders.
Arrangements have been made to ascertain whether shocks in this region
can be traced to any common central point, there being reason to believe
them to be connected with a mass of granite in Glen Lednoch, whose
position was indicated on a map exhibited by the author. He thought the
Comrie earthquakes may be explained on Mr. Mallet's theory of a shock
produced by the fall of huge masses of rock from the roof of huger
caverns in the earth's crust.

In a paper on the plants of the coal measures, Prof. W. C. Williamson
expressed his strong conviction that the flora of the coal measures
would ultimately become the battlefield on which the question of
evolution with reference to the origin of species would be fought out.
There would probably never be found another unbroken period of a
duration equal to that of the coal measures. Further, the roots, seeds,
and the whole reproductive structure of the coal-measure plants are all
present in an unequalled state of preservation. With reference to
calamites, Prof. Williamson said that what had formerly been regarded as
such had turned out to be only casts in sand and mud of the pith of the
true plant. He had lately obtained a specimen of calamite with the bark
on which showed a nucleal cellular pith, surrounded by canals running
lengthwise down the stem; outside of these canals wedges of true
vascular structure; and lastly, a cellular bark.

In the department of anthropology, Dr. Phene read a paper "On Recent
Remains of Totemism in Scotland." He defined Totemism as a form of
idolatry; a totem was either a living creature or a representation of
one, mostly an animal, very seldom a man. It was considered, from
reference to Pictish and other devices, that a dragon was a favorite
representative among such people of Britain as had not been brought
under Roman sway.

Mr. W. J. Knowles read a paper "On the Classification of Arrowheads,"
recommending the use of the following terms: stemmed, indented,
triangular, leaf-shaped, kite-shaped, and lozenge-shaped. Commander
Cameron, the African explorer, mentioned that arrow-heads of the same
shape as many exhibited by Mr. Knowles were in use in various African
tribes. One shape was formed so as to cause the arrow to rotate, and was
principally used for shooting game at long distances. The shape of the
arrows varied according to the taste of the makers; in one district
there were forty or fifty different shapes.

Commander Cameron gave drawings of the men with horns, a tribe of which
has been found by Captain J. S. Hay. According to the reproductions of
these drawings by the illustrated papers, these horns are very
prominent, and project forward from the cheekbone.

Mr. Gwin-Jeffreys, whose experience in deep-sea dredging makes his
opinion valuable, said that telegraph engineers did not sufficiently
take account of the sharp stones on the sea bottom, but assumed too
readily that they had to deal with a soft bottom only.

Mr. John Murray of the Challenger expedition announced that meteoric
dust is found in the sea ooze, a result that follows as a matter of
course from the discovery that this cosmic dust is falling all over the
earth.




AN ENGLISH CROP.


The yearly trial of harvesting machines was made this year at
Leamington, and the rye grass field, where the reapers and mowers were
worked, has its history given in the "Engineer," London. "It will be
interesting if we first describe this rye grass crop and the preceding
crop. A crop of wheat was grown in this field of seven acres last year,
and by the end of September it was well cultivated and sown with rye
grass seed. Three crops before this have been cut this year, the weight
of which was about eight tons to the acre for each crop, and as the
selling price was 1s. 6d. (36 cents) per cwt., this was at the rate of
L12 ($60) per acre per crop, or L36 per acre for the three crops. Had
not the last crop been set apart for the reaper and mower trials, it
would have been cut three weeks ago, when there were again about eight
tons to the acre. As it was, however, last week the crop had gone too
much to seed, and was too much laid for being of prime quality; the
result of which is, Mr. Tough, the owner, reckons the plants are too
much spent to stand well through a second year, and he therefore
contemplates turning it over in the spring for mangolds. Mr. Tough
calculated, however, that there were ten tons to the acre this cut, and
lots of carts and vans came to take the best of it; that is, the parts
which were not laid and yellow at the bottom, at the same price, 1s. 6d.
per cwt. The carts are weighed in over a weigh-bridge, and weighed out
again after the buyers have loaded up as much as they choose or require.
We may add this is better than selling by square measure. As to the next
growth, Mr. Tough says he shall get two more fair cuts this autumn if
the weather be warm, and he expects the two together will weigh eight
tons per acre more. As there will be a certain sale for this at 1s. 6d.
per cwt., this year's yield will realize the great return of L60 ($300)
per acre.




INFLUENCE OF WHITE COLORS.


Prof. Wallace gave at Glasgow some curious speculations based upon the
peculiarities observable in white animals. He had been discussing at
great length and with rare knowledge the distribution of butterflies,
remarking that some of the island groups were noticeably light-,
and endeavored to connect their color with their environment as follows:

Some very curious physiological facts, bearing upon the presence or
absence of white colors in the higher animals, have lately been adduced
by Dr. Ogle. It has been found that a  or dark pigment in the
olfactory region of the nostrils is essential to perfect smell, and this
pigment is rarely deficient except when the whole animal is pure white.
In these cases the creature is almost without smell or taste. This, Dr.
Ogle believes, explains the curious case of the pigs in Virginia adduced
by Mr. Darwin, white pigs being poisoned by a poisonous root, which does
not affect black pigs. Mr. Darwin imputed this to a constitutional
difference accompanying the dark color, which rendered what was
poisonous to the white- animals quite innocuous to the black. Dr.
Ogle, however, observes, that there is no proof that the black pigs eat
the root, and he believes the more probable explanation to be that it
is distasteful to them, while the white pigs, being deficient in smell
and taste, eat it, and are killed. Analogous facts occur in several
distinct families. White sheep are killed in the Tarentino by eating
Hypericum Criscum, while black sheep escape: white rhinoceroses are said
to perish from eating Euphorbia Candelabrum; and white horses are said
to suffer from poisonous food, where  ones escape. Now it is very
improbable that a constitutional immunity from poisoning by so many
distinct plants should in the case of such widely different animals be
always correlated with the same difference of color; but the facts are
readily understood if the senses of smell and taste are dependent on the
presence of a pigment which is deficient in wholly white animals. The
explanation has, however, been carried a step further, by experiments
showing that the absorption of odors by dead matter, such as clothing,
is greatly affected by color, black being the most powerful absorbent,
then blue, red, yellow, and lastly white. We have here a physical cause
for the sense inferiority of totally white animals which may account for
their rarity in nature. For few, if any, wild animals are wholly white.
The head, the face, or at least the muzzle or the nose, are generally
black. The ears and eyes are also often black; and there is reason to
believe that dark pigment is essential to good hearing, as it certainly
is to perfect vision. We can therefore understand why white cats with
blue eyes are so often deaf; a peculiarity we notice more readily than
their deficiency of smell or taste.

If then the prevalence of white-coloration is generally accompanied with
some deficiency in the acuteness of the most important senses, this
color becomes doubly dangerous, for it not only renders its possessor
more conspicuous to its enemies, but at the same time makes it less
ready in detecting the presence of danger. Hence, perhaps, the reason
why white appears more frequently in islands where competition is less
severe and enemies less numerous and varied. Hence, also, a reason why
albinoism, although freely occurring in captivity, never maintains
itself in a wild state, while melanism does. The peculiarity of some
islands in having all their inhabitants of dusky colors--as the
Galapagos--may also perhaps be explained on the same principles; for
poisonous fruits or seeds may there abound, which weed out all white or
light- varieties, owing to their deficiency of smell and taste.
We can hardly believe, however, that this would apply to white-
butterflies, and this may be a reason why the effect of an insular
habitat is more marked in these insects than in birds or mammals. But
though inapplicable to the lower animals, this curious relation of sense
acuteness with colors may have had some influence on the development of
the higher human races. If light tints of the skin were generally
accompanied by some deficiency in the senses of smell, hearing, and
vision, the white could never compete with the darker races, so long as
man was in a very low and savage condition, and wholly dependent for
existence on the acuteness of his senses. But as the mental faculties
become more fully developed and more important to his welfare than mere
sense acuteness, the lighter tints of skin, and hair, and eyes, would
cease to be disadvantageous whenever they were accompanied by superior
brain power. Such variations would then be preserved; and thus may have
arisen the Xanthochroic race of mankind, in which we find a high
development of intellect accompanied by a slight deficiency in the
acuteness of the senses as compared with the darker forms.




AN INVOLVED ACCIDENT.


Though American recklessness of life is proverbial among foreigners, we
may be thankful that India-rubber bags of explosive gases are not
carried by ignorant boys through our streets, as in Newcastle, England.
The practice resulted by a singular chain of mishaps in a violent
explosion. The first error was in using a bag for conveying an explosive
gas; the second in using a _leaky_ bag; the third in the experimenter,
who put coal gas into a bag containing oxygen; the fourth in sending a
boy to deliver it. Then comes a chapter of results. The boy became tired
and stopped to rest, dropping the bag on the pavement. Just as he did so
a passer-by lit his pipe and threw the burning match down. By chance it
fell upon the innocent looking bag, and probably just at the spot where
it leaked. After the consequent explosion only two pieces of the bag
could be found, one of which was thrown through the top windows of the
bank. Even the sound wave, or wave of concussion, had a mind to
distinguish itself. It entirely missed the first floor windows of the
bank, and left them uninjured, though the windows in both the ground
floor and the second floor were broken. The wave seems to have crossed
the street, smashing the ground windows there, and then been deflected
back across the street and upward to the top story of the bank.




AN OLD AQUEDUCT SYSTEM.


Ancient life is not usually considered to have been very cleanly, but it
is to the credit of the Romans that as much as 2,200 years ago they made
up their minds to reject the water of the Tiber as unfit to drink. They
hunted for springs in the mountains, and in the course of a few
centuries so many aqueducts were built that Rome had theoretically a
better supply of water than any modern city enjoys. Practically,
however, the Romans suffered from a peculiar kind of water pilfering.
Instead of 400,000,000 gallons daily which the springs furnished, the
city received only 208,000,000 gallons. This immense loss, says a
careful paper by the Austrian engineer, E. H. d'Avidor, arose partly
through neglect of the necessary repairs in the aqueducts, but still
more through the water being positively _stolen_. For one of the
principal favors by which the State and the emperors were in the habit
of rewarding minor services was by granting concessions for the _lost_
water; that is, for the water which escaped through the overflow of the
reservoirs, cisterns, and public fountains, or through the defects in
the aqueducts and mains. The consequence, of course, was that every
landed proprietor who had obtained a concession for the waste water
escaping from an aqueduct passing through his grounds was anxious to
increase this waste as much as possible--and from this wish to
intentional injury was but a step. The overseers and slaves in charge
were constantly bribed to abstain from repairing damages which had
arisen, or to cause new ones to arise, and these abuses reached such a
pitch that one aqueduct (Tepula) brought _no_ water whatever to Rome
during several years, the whole having been wasted, or rather abstracted
on its way. The irregularities of the water supply were still further
increased by the nature of the mains and distributing pipes, which, as I
have mentioned, were mere lead plates soldered into a pear-shaped
section, incapable of resisting even the most moderate pressure and
liable to injury by a common knife, so that any evil-disposed person
could tap the main almost wherever he pleased. At a later period,
indeed, the Romans appear to have used short clay pipes; lengths of such
mains have been discovered, consisting of two-feet spigot and socket
pipes carefully laid in and covered with a bed of concrete. These have
outlasted all the lead pipes, and are still frequently found in good
condition.

In the reign of Augustus, when Rome had about 350,000 inhabitants within
its walls, there was a supply of something like 680 gallons per head;
that is, about forty times as much as the valuation for Vienna. But
there were in ancient Rome no less than 1,352 public fountains, 591 jet
fountains, 19 large fortified camps or barracks, 95 thermae or immense
public baths, and 39 arenas or theatres, all of which were supplied with
a superfluity of constantly flowing water. The reservoirs contained only
about 6,000,000 gallons, and the distribution must have been very
irregular, and it has been calculated that some houses received ten
times as much water as others. Just as the Western miner reckons the
quantity of water by the _inch_, the Roman estimated it by the
_quinarius_, or amount that could flow through a pipe of one and a
quarter _finger_ diameter, under a head of twelve inches. This would
yield about ninety-two gallons in twelve hours, and the price was so low
that the householder paid only about half a cent _per year_ for each
gallon supplied daily. Ninety-two gallons a day would therefore cost
less than half a dollar a year. (In New York it would cost nearly $18.)
But though cheap, the water was not a vested right of all citizens. The
poor had it for nothing in the ample baths, wash houses, and fountains,
but householders could only obtain the right of water supply by a
petition to the consul, and in later times to the emperor himself; even
then, however, with difficulty. It was a matter of favor and a reward
of merit, that applied only to the person to whom it was granted, not
transferable by gift or sale, and which lapsed with the death of the
owner or the sale of the house for which it had been granted.




GALVANISM CANNOT RESTORE EXHAUSTED VITALITY.


Dr. B. W. Richardson says that artificial respiration is a much more
effective means of restoring the drowned or asphyxiated than galvanism.
By the use of an intermittent current of galvanism it is possible to
make the respiratory muscles of an animal recently dead act in precise
imitation of life, and the heart can be excited into brisk contraction
by the same means. But the result was that "the muscles excited by the
current dropped quickly into irrevocable death through becoming
exhausted under the stimulus, and that in fact the galvanic battery,
according to our present knowledge of its use in these cases, is an all
but certain instrument of death. By subjecting animals to death from the
vapor of chloroform in the same atmosphere, and treating one set by
artificial respiration with the double-acting pump, and the other set by
artificial respiration excited by galvanism, I found that the first
would recover in the proportion of five out of six, the second in
proportion of one out of six. Further, I found that if during the
performance of mechanical artificial respiration the heart were excited
by galvanism, death is all but invariable." This results from the fact
that "the passage of a galvanic current through the muscles of a body
recently dead confers on those muscles no new energy; that the current
in its passage only excites temporary contraction; that the force of
contraction resident in the muscles themselves is but educed by the
excitation, and to strike the life out of the muscles by the galvanic
shock without feeding the force, expended by contraction, from the
centre of the body, is a fatal principle of practice."




CURIOUS OPTICAL EXPERIMENTS.


Prof. Nipher of the Washington university at St. Louis describes some
optical illusions, easily tried and apparently very singular, as
follows: 1. Fold a sheet of writing paper into a tube whose diameter
is about three cm. Keeping both eyes open, look through the tube with
one eye, and look at the hand with the other, the hand being placed
close by the tube. An extraordinary phenomenon will be observed. A hole
the size of the tube will appear cut through the hand, through which
objects are distinctly visible. That part of the tube between the eye
and the hand will appear transparent, as though the hand was seen
through it. This experiment is not new, but I have never seen it
described. The explanation of it is quite evident.

2. Drop a blot of ink upon the palm of the hand, at the point where the
hole appears to be, and again observe as before. Unless the attention be
strongly concentrated upon objects seen through the tubes the ink-spot
will be visible within the tube (apparently), but that part of the hand
upon which it rests will be invisible, unless special attention be
directed to the hand. Ordinarily the spot will appear opaque. By
directing the tube upon brilliantly illuminated objects, it will,
however, appear transparent, and may be made to disappear by proper
effort. By concentrating the attention upon the hand, it may also be
seen within the tube (especially if strongly illuminated), that part
immediately surrounding the ink spot appearing first.

3. Substitute for the hand a sheet of unruled paper, and for the ink
spot a small hole cut through the paper. The small hole will appear
within the tube, distinguishing itself by its higher illumination, the
paper immediately surrounding it being invisible. Many other curious
experiments will suggest themselves. For example: if an ink spot
somewhat larger than the tube be observed, the lower end of the tube
will appear to be blackened on the inside.




ICE MACHINES.


Ice machines are constructions designed to employ the heat generated
from coal in extracting the heat stored up in water at the ordinary
temperature. One ton of coal will make 15 tons of ice, and yet only
about 1 per cent. of the power used is utilized, these machines being
especially wasteful of heat. The work is done through the medium of some
volatile fluid, like ether or ammonia, or by the use of previously
cooled air. Raoul Pictet, who advocates the employment of another
fluid--sulphurous acid solution--says that every machine must comply
with five conditions: 1. Too great pressure must not occur in any part
of the apparatus. 2. The volatile liquid employed ought to be so
volatile that there will be no danger of air entering. 3. It is
necessary to have a system of compression which does not require the
constant introduction of grease or of foreign materials into the
machine. 4. The liquid must be stable, it must not decompose by the
frequent changes of condition, and it must not exert chemical action on
the metals of which the apparatus is constructed. 5. Lastly, it is
necessary, as far as possible, to remove all danger of explosion and of
fire, and for this reason the liquid must not be combustible. The only
substance, in his opinion, that answers these requirements is sulphurous
acid. This subject is a very important one. If the utilization of heat
could be carried to 3 per cent., as in most machines, it might be
possible to make ice cheaper in New York than to gather, store, and
transport it.




AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES.


Some months ago the telegraph announced that a Congress of Americanistes
had met in Nancy in France, and few people in this country could imagine
who the congressmen were or whether they were of this country. It was,
in fact, the meeting of a society, composed chiefly of Europeans, which
means to prosecute studies in the history, language, and character of
American aborigines. This is a laudable work. America probably offers
the most important field for ethnological study in the world. The great
extent of her two continents gave the freest scope for the complete
development of whatever capacity for civilization her people had; and
yet savagism continued here for many centuries after it had ceased in
Europe. Thus the student in going back three hundred years can penetrate
the past as far in this country as he can reach in Europe by pursuing
his inquiries back for two to three thousand years. Under ordinary
circumstances this fact would make American history much easier to study
than those of Europe where the remnants left by the savage tribes are
dimmed by an extraordinary progress or covered by the debris of
centuries of movement. But the truth is it is about as easy to learn the
habits of the ancient Britons as those of the American tribes, even the
most civilized, five centuries ago. This is partly due to the wanton
destruction of valuable records by the early conquerors and partly to
the prepossession that most men, even able ones, seem to be shackled
with; namely, that the origin of America's former inhabitants is to be
sought in some people of Asia. If they would leave that question for the
twentieth century to decide, and begin a painstaking inquiry into what
was going on in this country before its discovery, ask not _who_, but
what sort of men inhabited it, their habits and their relations, the
gentlemen who compose this society of Americanistes would probably reach
valuable results. There is plenty to occupy them. If they do not want to
grapple at once such a knotty subject as the relation of the Mound
Builders to the existing tribes, let them explore Spain for relics of
the Aztecs. It is highly probable that records of the most precious
character are still to be found there in public archives and in private
hands, the descendants perhaps of common soldiers of Cortes's army, who
were quite likely to send home during and after the Conquest things that
were odd and quaint to them and which would be invaluable to us now. As
it is, the time of the Nancy Congress of Americanistes has been too much
occupied with efforts to make the ancient inhabitants of this country a
tag to one of the numerous Asian migrations. All such attempts have been
failures, for the simple reason that we do not have facts enough to
prove _any_ theory. Still they have done some good work, and though the
subject is not of the most importance, we can but think that M.
Comettant's paper on "Music in America" before its discovery by Columbus
must have been as correct in purpose as it appears daring in subject.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some seeds will germinate when placed between pieces of ice and kept at
a freezing temperature; and it is thought that, this method will afford
an easy means of selecting varieties of seed which will bear a cold
climate.

       *       *       *       *       *

The explosion in the coal mines at Jabin, Belgium, last February, was
due to the ignition of fine coal powder suspended in the air.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Vienna lady, who had been maid of honor to the Empress Maria Theresa,
lately died in that city at the age of one hundred and nineteen years.
That is certainly a well established case of longevity extending beyond
a century.

       *       *       *       *       *

The rare metal vanadium is worth 13,000 francs ($2,600) per pound; about
eight times as much as gold. And yet vanadium is, as Dr. Hayes has
shown, a very widely diffused metal. It forms, however, only a mere
trace in most rocks.

       *       *       *       *       *

W. Siemens has lately determined velocity of propagation of electricity
in suspended iron telegraph wires, and finds it to be between 30,000 and
35,000 miles per second. Kirchhoff had determined it at 21,000 miles and
Wheatstone at 61,900 miles.

       *       *       *       *       *

Prof. Forel of Switzerland has proved that the water of lakes oscillates
almost constantly from one bank to another, and this not only from end
to end, but also from side to side. Thus the Swiss lakes have two
_Seiches_, as they are called, in opposite directions.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sewage schemes have had a good many indignant critics and fervent
defenders. Of the former is Mr. Louis Thompson, who says that the sewage
discharged into seacoast harbors floats on the surface, being lighter
than salt water. Its solid portions are cast up on the shore and in
shoal places, there to become the food of animals, among which are shell
fish, that serve for man's food.

       *       *       *       *       *

Boys' kites can be kept from plunging by making both the wood cross
pieces in the form of a bow, instead of flat. The string is placed a
little above the centre of the upright bow, and a very light tail
attached. These kites are very steady, and if a string attached to one
side of the centre is pulled after the kite has risen, it can be made to
fly as much as thirty degrees from the wind. For this reason it is
proposed to use kites for bringing a vessel to windward.




CURRENT LITERATURE.


Mrs. Annie Edwards's last book[K] does not open well in point of style.
The first paragraph of the first chapter is: "She was a woman of nearly
thirty when I first saw her; a woman spiritless and worn beyond her
years," etc. This beginning not only a chapter but a book with a pronoun
implying an antecedent is very bad, in the low and vulgar way of
badness. It brings to mind the superhuman daily efforts of the "American
humorist" of journalism to be funny; and it should be left to him and to
his kind. And in the next paragraph Mrs. Edwards describes her heroine
as "walking wearily along the weary street of Chesterford St. Mary." Bad
style again, and this time in the way of affectation. A man's way may be
weary if he is tired or weak; but not even then should it be so called,
when he has just been spoken of as weary himself, or as walking wearily;
and weary as applied descriptively to a village street is almost
nonsense. These defects are not important, but they arrest attention as
being at the very opening of the story. And it must be confessed that
for a chapter or two "A Point of Honor" is rather slight in texture and
commonplace. It is, however, interesting enough to lead us on, and the
reader who holds his way into the third or fourth chapter is repaid. The
authoress then warms up to her work, and begins to show her quality,
which is that of a true literary artist. We do not say a great artist,
be it observed, but a true artist. She paints only _genre_ pictures; but
unlike most works of that class (on canvas at least), they are not mere
representations of pretty faces and pretty clothes. She works with a
real knowledge of the human heart, and her work is full of feeling. She
does nothing in the grand style; even her most loving women do not have
grand passions; but all her work is truthful and warm with real life,
and her earnest people are really in earnest. The story of "A Point of
Honor" is interesting, although its incidents are not all out of the
common way. Gifford Mohun, the handsome young heir of Yatton, an estate
in Devonshire, loves, when he is only twenty, one Jane Grand, a
beautiful and sweet-natured girl who is only a year younger than
himself. Nothing is known of her history. She herself does not know her
own parentage. All this has been concealed from her at her father's
request, and with some reason; for it comes out that she is the daughter
of a felon, who died in the hulks, by a minor French actress, a
modification of whose name, Grandet, she bears. When she knows this, she
refuses to taint Mohun's name and life with such dishonor, and he
accepts her decision; doing so with two implications on the part of the
authoress: first, that he was selfish in doing so at all; next, that
doing it he did it coldly and with a false affectation of feeling. He
leaves Yatton and its neighborhood, and plunges into dissipation. Jane
remains at Chesterford, leading her solitary life and loving him.
Meantime the vicar, Mr. Follett, a man of strong nature, much
tenderness, and great tact, whose character is admirably drawn, loves
Jane, and quietly bides his time. After ten years, however, Mohun
returns, walks into Jane's parlor, and asks her to be friends with him.
She, loving him no less than ever, assents gladly, and thereafter he is
almost domesticated in her cottage. He has become somewhat gross in
manner and in speech, as well as in person; but Jane loves him, and
watches for his coming, day by day, as when she was a girl. This goes on
for some months, with a slight admixture of the curate, when all at once
a new personage appears upon the scene. Mohun receives a letter, which
he shows to Jane, and asks her advice about. It is from a Matty
Fergusson, whom he remembers as the untidy little daughter of some
disreputable people he knew something of at a German watering place. She
tells a sad tale of destitution, and asks him to recommend her to some
of his friends as a governess or companion. He is disgusted and
angered at the intrusion, and proposes to send her a five-pound note, or
perhaps ten pounds, and so end the matter. But Jane, whom he asks to
write the letter for him, is touched with pity for the poor girl's
forlornness and suffering, and writes an invitation to her to come to
Chesterford and visit her for a week. She brings a Greek horse within
the walls of her little Troy. She and Gifford expect to see a poor,
meek, limp, shabbily dressed slip of a girl; but Miss Matty Fergusson
enters the cottage a tall and magnificently beautiful young woman; her
grandeur both of toilet and person quite dwarfing the poor little
cottage and its poor little mistress. The end is now visible. Matty
Fergusson is the adventuress daughter of an adventuress mother. Nothing
was true in her letter except the story of her poverty; and she has
played this game with the direct purpose of catching the master of
Yatton. She succeeds; and when Jane speaks to him about its being time
for his overwhelming young friend to depart, he becomes rude and makes a
brutal speech, which undeceives Jane, and kills her love for him. Mohun,
however, does not give himself up to the Fergusson without an attempt at
freedom, and an endeavor to resume his relations with Jane, whom he now
appreciates at her full worth. He confesses and deplores his fault and
begs forgiveness, and offers to break with Miss Fergusson at any cost,
if Jane will give him back her love. But she, although she forgives,
will not receive him again on the old footing, and he drives off with
his handsome adventuress wife, and Jane loves and is married to Mr.
Follett. The story is told with great and yet with very simple skill,
and the characters of the few personages are revealed rather than
portrayed. And by the way, we remark upon Mrs. Edwards's ability to
interest her readers and work out a story with few materials. She rarely
depends for her effects upon more than four or five personages. She is
equally reserved in her manner. She does not paint black and white, but
with human tints only in light and shadow. In this book Mohun's
selfishness is shown with a very delicate hand, and although we are left
in no doubt as to his real character, he is dealt with in such an
impartial and artistic spirit, that some similarly selfish men will
apologize for him and some others will, it may be hoped, read
themselves in him and struggle against the worse part of their natures.
Jane is, perhaps, more angel than woman, but then a good woman who loves
is so often truly angelic with an admixture of human passion that makes
her more loveable as well as more loving than any angel ever was, that
we cannot find fault with poor Jane's perfection. In reading this book
we cannot but remark the common nature of its subject in women's novels
nowadays. The themes on which they write endless variations are the
selfishness of men, and the unselfishness of women in love. Of the men
in the women-written novels of the day, so many are plausible,
agreeable, clever, accomplished, heartless creatures; only a few escape
the general condemnation, and they are those queer creatures "women's
men"--impossible, and bores, like Daniel Deronda. The heroines, major
and minor, love devotedly. But George Eliot does not fall into the
latter blunder. For some reason she is able to see the feminine as well
as the masculine side of social and sexual selfishness. This treatment
of men on the part of the sex is remarkable, for women themselves will
admit and do admit, in unguarded moments, that there is somewhat less of
disinterestedness in this matter on woman's side than on man's. But the
point, we suppose, is this, that woman, when she does love with all her
heart, loves with a blind devotion, an exclusiveness of admiration and
of passion, and a persistency, which she demands from man, which, not
having, she doubts whether she is loved at all, and which, it must be
confessed, rare in woman, is much more rare in man, with whom indeed it
is exceptional. The truth is that man's love is as different from
woman's as his body is; but it is, therefore, none the less worth having
if she would only think so. Man is made to have less exclusiveness of
feeling in this respect than woman has. He would not be man else, nor
she woman if she were otherwise. The mistake is in her expectation of
receiving exactly the same as she gives. She has found out that she does
not get it, or does so very rarely, and the men in women's novels of the
Gifford Mohun type are one of the ways in which she proclaims and
avenges her wrongs.

--"The Barton Experiment," by "the author of 'Helen's Babies,'"[L]
cannot be called a novel--hardly a tale--and yet it is a story--the
story of a great "temperance movement" at Barton, which is supposed to
be a village somewhere at the west--in Kentucky, we should say, from
certain local references. We do not know who the author of Helen's
Babies is--he, and Helen, and her babies being alike strangers to us;
but he is a clever writer, and a humorist, with no little dramatic
power. His personages are studies from nature, and have individuality
and life; albeit they reveal a somewhat narrow horizon of observation.
He uses largely, but always humorously, the western style of
exaggeration; as, for example, when he makes one of his reformers tell a
steamboat captain that if he will stop drinking whiskey, he will make a
reputation, and "be as famous as the Red River raft or the Mammoth
Cave--_the only thing of the sort west of the Alleghanies_." He
describes his people in a way that shows that he has them in the eye of
his imagination; as in this portrait of a Mrs. Tappelmine: "With face,
hair, eyes, and garments of the same color, the color itself being
neutral; small, thin, faded, inconspicuous, poorly clad, bent with
labors which had yielded no return, as dead to the world as saints
strive to be, _yet remaining in the world for the sake of those whom she
had often wished out of it_," etc. The book is in every way clever, and
its purpose is admirable--the lesson which it is written to teach being
that personal effort and personal sacrifice on the part of reformers is
necessary to reclaim hard drinkers. But the radical fault of all such
moral story writing is that the writer makes his puppets do as he likes.
The drinking steamboat captain yields to the persuasions of his friend,
and even submits to necessary personal restraint. But how if he had not
yielded? Old Tappelmine gives up his whiskey for the sake of money and
employment, which inducements are strongly backed by his neutral-<DW52>
wife; but how if he had been brutally selfish and immovable? In both
these cases, and in all the others, failure was at least quite as likely
as success. People in real life cannot be managed as they can upon
paper. Still the book contains a truth, and is likely to do good.

--The same publishers have also brought out an illustrated book by
Bayard Taylor,[M] which is suitable to the coming holiday season. It is
a collection of short tales of adventure in different parts of the
world, in which boys take a prominent part. It is one of the fruits of
the author's extended travels, and is manly, simple, and healthy--a very
good sort of book for those for whom it is intended, which, in these
days of mawkish or feverish "juvenile" literature, is saying much for
it.

--Why Miss Thacher should call a little book, which contains a little
collection of little sketches, "Seashore and Prairie," we do not see. It
is rather a big and an affected name for such a slight thing. But it is
bright and pleasant, and well suited to the needs of those who cannot
fix their attention long upon any subject. We regret to see in it marks
of that extravagance and affectation in the use of language which are
such common blemishes of style in our ephemeral literature. For example:
a very sensible and much needed plea for the preservation of birds, is
called "The Massacre of the Innocents;" and we are told that "a St.
Bartholomew of birds has been _inaugurated_." Miss Thacher should leave
this style of writing to the newspaper reporters.

--The large circle of readers who are interested in Palestine, and the
lands and waters round about it, will find Mr. Warner's last book of
travel[N] very pleasant reading--full of information and suggestion. He
observes closely, describes nature with a true feeling for her beauties,
and men with spirit and a fine apprehension of their peculiarities. He
is not very reverent, and breaks some idols which have been worshipped.
He is not an admirer of the Hebrews, or of anything that is theirs,
except their literature. His style is lively and agreeable, but we
cannot call it either elegant or correct. He tells some "traveller's
stories;" for instance, one about catching an eagle's feather on
horseback (pp. 103, 104). True he "has the feather to show;" but on the
whole he makes not too many overdrafts upon the credulity of his
readers, and does not color much too highly.

--In his latest tale[O] Mr. Yates introduces American characters,
following what seems to be the prevailing fashion among English authors,
especially those who are not of the first rank. Mr. Yates manages his
foreign scenes and characters with good judgment, but his Americans we
should not recognize as such without his introduction. The scene of the
story is in England. Sir Frederick Randall, a dissolute young nobleman,
is condemned to imprisonment, under an assumed name, for forgery. Making
his escape, he woos a beautiful and innocent American girl, the daughter
of a petroleum millionaire from Oil City. As he is already married, it
is necessary to dispose of one wife before he takes another. This he
does by throwing madam over a cliff by the seashore. Caught by
projecting bushes, she is, without his knowledge, rescued alive by some
Americans, who are yachting off the coast. One of these Americans has
long loved Minnie Adams, the pretty American girl, but she and her
parents are fascinated by Sir Frederick's title and the expected
introduction to high-class English society. Minnie marries the would-be
murderer, and after a year of trouble and brutal treatment, severe
sickness ensues, during which she is nursed by her husband's first and
only legal wife. Finally Sir Frederick is murdered by an old comrade of
his debaucheries, and the two wives are equitably distributed between
the two American gentlemen.

--Messrs. Hurd & Houghton are doing good service in reissuing the
Riverside edition of the Waverley Novels.[P] The well-chosen proportion
of page and type and the excellent work of the Riverside press have
combined to make these volumes, what American books are too apt not to
be--a thing of permanent beauty. The publishers intend to bring out the
edition quite rapidly. Five volumes are ready, and the others will
follow at the rate of one each month. The present is the great era of
mediocre men. A horde of novel writers gain their living successfully
enough, and we take them up and talk about what they are doing, and how
their works compare with each other, as if their doings had real
importance. But what are they to the enduring genius of Abbotsford? He
has not only proved an inexhaustible source of delight to two
generations of readers, but has founded an industry--the publication of
his works--which is likely to be for scores of years to come a permanent
source of livelihood to hundreds.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is evident that we have not a new light of poetry in Mr. Voldo.[Q] He
tells us that this is a first attempt, and it may well be the last, for
he seems to have been led--and misled--into the practice of poetic
expression by a certain gift, in his case fatal, of rhythm. The flow of
his lines is far superior to the meaning or the expression. In fact the
latter is so involved and farfetched, that the former is often entirely
obscured. To find out what it is he tries to tell us would really be a
painful process, and the few attempts we have made were too immediately
fatiguing to produce any results. Two of his poems are worth reading,
one because its versification is well managed, and the other because its
story is simple and naturally told. It is a relief after so many pages
of overstraining at words, and it shows that Mr. Voldo can be really
pleasant, if he will only be simple. Well, two out of fifty is above the
average!

       *       *       *       *       *

It is only two years since a prominent American geologist wrote to a
foreign scientific paper that he had been on the point of sending to
Germany for two or three men to assist him in an important State
survey.[R] His reason for this determination was that our country did
not possess men competent to find and follow up intelligently the
different strata; except those who were already engaged on other
surveys. Luckily this discreditable act was prevented by the sudden
abandonment of one of these other surveys, which released assistants
enough to satisfy this extremely difficult gentleman. The truth is that,
by some means, geological science has been pushed in this country with
great vigor and with grand results. Within the last ten years there has
been a revival of energy in that particular science which recalls the
golden days of Hugh Miller, Murchison, Agassiz, and Lyell. The time when
the very exacting gentleman, above alluded to, could not find helpers on
this side of the Atlantic, was the middle point around which were
grouped the surveys of Newberry and Andrews in Ohio, Clarence King in
Nevada, Whitney in California, Wheeler and Powell south of the Pacific
Railroad, and Hayden north of that line. Michigan was just finishing a
partial, but extremely productive, survey of her mineral regions.
Missouri had plunged hopefully into another. Pennsylvania was planning
the comprehensive work in which Leslie and his aids are now engaged.
Indiana, New Jersey, and other States had taken the great steps so much
desired by the initiated all over the world, and had made the geologist
a standing member of their government. All this had been done without
the _necessary_ importation of a foreigner. One or two foreigners had
obtained employment on these surveys, but only because they came here
and sought the work. Nearly every one of the young men who performed the
work of assistants was an American. It is safe to say that in this
revival of geological work from twenty to fifty young Americans have
learned to be scientific men. As to the results of their activity, it is
sufficient to read a report like that of Mr. Powell, to find how rapidly
they are adding to our knowledge of the earth's history, and even
altering the canons of scientific belief. Mr. Powell tells us that in
his first expedition, eight years ago, and for three years after that,
he tried hard to find in the west the equivalents of the State epochs
and periods so well known as the basis of geological nomenclature, and
nearly all taken from the exposures in New York and other Eastern and
Southeastern States. It was not until this attempt was abandoned that he
began to make progress. He had to study the western regions by
themselves, and leave correspondences to the future. That was the
experience of all the workers in the west, and it brings plainly to view
the great fact, of which not all, even of our best known geologists, are
yet fully persuaded, that the geological record, though doubtless a
unit, is not uniform over the whole country. These shackles thrown off,
the geology of the west leaped up with a vigor which is astonishing. It
seemed to be pretty evident, from Prof. Huxley's lectures here, that he
had not before imagined what results had been obtained in America. This
is not surprising. Few foreigners are able to keep along with the work
performed in this country, where there is such a direful supposed lack
of workers! It is a fact that at present there is no part of the world
where the discoveries made in this science are of so general importance
as here. The Rocky mountains owe their name "to great and widely spread
aridity," the mountains being "scantily clothed with vegetation and the
indurated lithologic formations rarely masked with soils." But there are
many systems of uplifts in this region, and Mr. Powell distinguishes
three in the field covered by his report. They are the Park mountains
("the lofty mountains that stand as walls about the great parks of
Southern Wyoming, Colorado, and Northern New Mexico"); the Basin Range
system (named by Gilbert from the fact that many of them surround basins
that have no drainage to the sea); and the Plateau Province. It is worth
remarking that in the west the geologist precedes or accompanies the
topographer, and accordingly has an opportunity to name the regions
according to real peculiarities rather than chance suggestions. The
future map will be significant of the past history as well as of the
ocular features of the landscape. Mr. Powell gives careful sections of
the strata in the Plateau Province, where they are about 46,000 feet
thick. Few persons imagine the vast amount of work, exploration, and
comparison which such drawings embody. The beds form a series of groups
unlike those of the New York geologists, but the great geologic ages are
as well defined as elsewhere. The synchronism remains to be fully
established by palaeontological proofs. He thinks he has been able to fix
upon the true point of division between the Mesozoic and Cenozoic ages,
and to prove that coal was deposited through about 7,000 feet of
Cretaceous and about 4,500 feet of Cenozoic beds. Mr. Powell's literary
style is excellent--not involved, but clear and energetic. He was wise
to abandon the idea of publishing an itinerary, which would, as he says,
"encumber geological literature with a mass of undigested facts of
little value." Geology has enough of such meaningless reports. As it is,
we follow him with confidence, and he gives us a story that is plain and
comprehensible.

       *       *       *       *       *

The publications of the Massachusetts Board of Health[S] have been of a
superior character, and have given that organization decided prominence
among similar American boards. The question of how to prevent river
pollution in their State they think can best be solved by placing
advisory power in the hands of some Government officer, upon whose
conclusions legislative action for each case should be based. This
officer would be paid by the parties in interest. Good results are to be
obtained only by comparing and altering when necessary what is done. In
this country too little is known about this subject, and the appointment
of an official "with power" is the first step toward knowledge. The
suggestions made as to the way to deal with sewage are also mostly good,
but it is doubtful whether general purification can wisely be enforced
in the present state of sanitary science. If there are any very bad
cases of pollution, they may properly be provided for in the way
suggested, and experience gained from them. The lack of experience here
is partially corrected by studying the work accomplished abroad; but a
rapid review of such work can never replace the slower results of
individual experience. The report of Mr. Kirkwood, the engineer, adds to
the abundant testimony we already have of the efficacy and power of
Nature's quietest work. Analyses show that the water of Charles river
above the Newton lower falls is, when filtered, fit, though barely fit,
to drink, and yet it has received the refuse of forty-two mills and
factories, with a population of 14,000 persons known to be sewering
into the river, and a population in the basin of three times that
number. The river has a dry-weather flow of only twenty million gallons
in twenty-four hours. On the general subject of sewage utilization the
secretary concludes that in this country the sewage has no value, but
can in some places, at least, be utilized without loss. In the death
rate of Massachusetts towns the village of Canton (4,192 population)
carries the palm, with only 11.9 deaths per thousand. Holyoke, 56.5 per
thousand, has the highest.

--The report that a city is to be built in England on strict sanitary
principles, in which man may, if he will, live to a hundred and fifty
years of age, will give additional interest to this address[T] in which
Dr. Richardson develops the project. The address was delivered a year
ago, when the Doctor was president of the Health Department of the
Social Science Association. It deserves attention because it indicates,
pretty nearly, the goal toward which all the conscious and unconscious
improvement in our living for centuries has tended. Whether man can
obtain such control over the duration of his life depends very largely
upon whether he finds himself able to submit to the discipline and
self-abnegation without which the mechanical improvements made will have
only partial success. Perfect living is not merely a thing of
appliances. These are necessary, but the subjection of the will to the
requirements of orderly conduct is equally necessary. However, Dr.
Richardson says that "Utopia is but another word for time," and it is
certain that his ideal of public and private life will be at least
approached by the slow progress of small improvements. Some people have
objected that they don't want to live a century and a half, and that a
city where men two hundred years of age might occasionally be seen
walking about is just the place they would most carefully avoid. But we
can none of us escape our fate. If society is progressing toward that
end, let us accept it, and even allow the men of science to hurry up
matters a century or two. It is, perhaps, significant that this change
in man's estate comes just at the time when a reduction in the rate of
interest is taking place, and it seems likely that a man will have to
live to a hundred years in order to accumulate enough to buy him a
house. When he has it, he will need another half century to enjoy it. At
all events read this ideal, extraordinary, and learned exposition of the
health of the future.

--The idea of collecting in one volume a concise statement of modern
theories of the mode in which we receive impressions is excellent, and
it has been well carried out by Prof. Bernstein.[U] Touch, sight,
hearing, smell, and taste are treated from an anatomical and
experimental point of view, and the researches of Helmholtz, Weber, and
the numerous band of investigators who have in late years devised so
many ingenious modes of testing the operation of these senses are well
represented. The book contains probably as much exact and accurate
information, and as thorough a treatment of the subject, as can be
contained in a volume of this size. It is an advanced treatise that
places the reader in possession of the latest theories on these occult
subjects. Of necessity it is not new; but this treatment and the facts
here given will be found novel by most readers.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote K: "_A Point of Honor._" By MRS. ANNIE EDWARDS. 16mo, pp. 325.
New York: Sheldon & Co.]

[Footnote L: "_The Barton Experiment._" By the author of "Helen's
Babies." New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.]

[Footnote M: "_Boys of Other Countries._ Stories for American Boys." By
BAYARD TAYLOR. 12mo, pp. 164. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.]

[Footnote N: "_In the Levant._" By C. D. WARNER. 12mo, pp. 374. Boston:
J. R. Osgood & Co.]

[Footnote O: "_Going to the Bad._ A Novel." By EDMUND YATES. Boston:
William F. Gill & Co. 75 cts.]

[Footnote P: "_Waverley Novels._" Riverside Edition. "Waverley," "Guy
Mannering," "Rob Roy," "The Antiquary." New York: Hurd & Houghton. $3.50
per volume.]

[Footnote Q: "_A Song of America, and Minor Lyrics._" By V. VOLDO. New
York: Hanscom & Co.]

[Footnote R: "_Report on the Geology of the Eastern Portion of the Unita
Mountains and Adjacent Country._" With Atlas. By J. W. POWELL.
Washington: Department of the Interior.]

[Footnote S: "_Seventh Annual Report of the State Board of Health of
Massachusetts._" Boston: Wright & Potter.]

[Footnote T: "_Hygeia_: A City of Health." By BENJAMIN WARD RICHARDSON.
MacMillan & Co.]

[Footnote U: "_The Five Senses of Man._" By JULIUS BERNSTEIN.
Illustrated. New York: D. Appleton & Co. (International Scientific
Series.)]




BOOKS RECEIVED.


"_Outlines of Lectures on the History of Philosophy._" By J. J.
ELMENDORF, L.L. D. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.

"_Modern Materialism; its Attitude Toward Theology._" By J. MARTINEAU,
L.L. D. The same.

"_A Child's Book of Religion._" By O. B. FROTHINGHAM. The same.

"_An Alphabet in Finance._" By G. MCADAM. The same.

"_Roddy's Ideal._" By HELEN K. JOHNSON. The same.

"_History of French Literature._" By HENRI VAN LAREN. The same.

"_Lectures on the History of Preaching._" By J. A. BROADUS, D. D., LL.
D. Sheldon & Co., New York.

"_Why Four Gospels?_" By Rev. D. D. GREGORY. The same.

"_Rules for Conducting Business in Deliberative Assemblies._" By P. H.
MELL, D.D., LL.D. The same.

"_A Young Man's Difficulties with His Bible._" By D. W. FAUNCE, D.D. The
same.

"_A Vocabulary of English Rhymes._" By Rev. S. W. BARNUM. D. Appleton &
Co., New York.

"_The Carlyle Anthology._" By E. BARRETT. H. Holt & Co., New York.

"_Our Mutual Friend._" By CHARLES DICKENS. Condensed by R. Johnson. The
same.

"_Life and Times of William Samuel Johnston, LL.D._" By E. E. BEARDSLEY,
D.D., LL.D. Hurd & Houghton, New York.

"_Washington._ A Drama in Five Acts." By MARTIN F. TUPPER. J. Miller,
New York.

"_Castle Windows._" By L. C. STRONG. H. B. Nims & Co., Troy, N. Y.

"_That New World_, and Other Poems." By Mrs. S. M. B. PIATT. J. R.
Osgood & Co., Boston.

"_Light on the Clouds_; or, Hints of Comfort for Hours of Sorrow." By M.
J. SAVAGE. Lockwood, Brooks & Co., Boston.

"_In the Sky Garden._" By L. W. CHAMPNEY. The same.

"_The Religion of Evolution._" By M. J. SAVAGE. The same.

"_Student Life at Harvard._" The same.

"_Long Ago._ (A year of Child life)." By ELLIS GRAY. The same.

"_The Young Trail Hunters_; or, The Wild Riders of the Plains." By S. W.
COZZENS. Lee & Sheppard, Boston.

"_Vine and Olive_; or, Young America in Spain and Portugal." By W. T.
ADAMS (Oliver Optic). The same.

"_The National Ode._" By BAYARD TAYLOR. W. F. Gill & Co., Boston.

"_Hold the Fort._" By P. P. BLISS. The same.

"_The Poetical and Prose Writings of Charles Sprague._" A. Williams &
Co., Boston.

"_Corinne_; or, Italy. A Love Story." By MME. DE STAEL. T. B. Peterson &
Bro., Philadelphia.

"_Frank Nelson in the Forecastle_; or, The Sportsman's Club among the
Whalers." By HARRY CASTLEMON. The same.

"_Fridthjof's Saga._ A Norse Romance." By E. FEGNER, Bishop of Mexico.
S. C. Griggs & Co., Chicago.

"_Viking Tales of the North._" By ANDERSON. The same.

"_Michigan Board of Agriculture._ 1875." Lansing, Mich.




NEBULAE.


--During the progress of the canvass for the Presidential election--in
our September number--we made a promise which seemed about the safest
that could be made, but which proved to be a rash one--so rash that at
this moment we are entirely unable to redeem it--as unable as if we had
undertaken to say which exhibitor at the Philadelphia Exhibition would
not get a medal. We said that we would give our readers accurate
information, in our December number, as to which party was likely to
carry the day. What may happen before these words are printed and laid
before our readers we cannot tell; and the experience of the past few
weeks has taught us caution as to prediction and promise, even upon
apparent certainty; but although the election is more than a month past,
_we_ do not know who is to be President, and no one is wiser on this
subject than we are. The matter is not one to be treated lightly. It is
of the gravest possible importance. No consequence of our civil war is
more serious or more deplorable than that condition of the former slave
States, which has caused this prolonged uncertainty with regard to the
result of the election, and that political state of the whole country
which has made this uncertainty the occasion of such intense and
embittered feeling, and such desperate measures by the managers of both
the great political parties. In fact, the war of secession is not at an
end. Twelve years have passed since the military forces of the seceders
surrendered to those of the Government, but the contest, or one arising
from it, prolongs itself into the present, when those are men who, when
the war broke out, were too young to understand its causes. And at the
same time we are suffering, in our prostrate trade and almost
extinguished commerce, another grievous consequence of the same dire
internecine struggle. Truly ourselves and our institutions are sorely
tried. A like combination of disastrous circumstances would bring about
a revolution in any other country. If we go through this trial safely,
we may not only feel thankful, but take some reasonable pride in the
national character and in the political institutions that will bear such
a long and severe strain without breaking. And yet we all have faith
that we shall endure it and come out in the end more stable and more
prosperous than ever.


--The cause of this trouble is a change in the political substance and
the political habits of the country, of which the average citizen seems
to have little knowledge and of which he takes less thought. We do not
refer to the change of the functions of the Electoral College from those
of a real electing body to those of a mere recorder of the votes of the
people of the several States, which has been much remarked upon of late
years. That change took place very early; and thus far it has been
productive of no trouble or even of inconvenience. If that were all,
there would be little need of any modification of our system of electing
the President. But there has been of later years--say within the last
half century--a change from the political condition of the country to
which the Electoral College was adapted. We are in the habit, in
patriotic moments, of lauding the wisdom and the foresight of the
fathers of the republic. And they were wise, and good, and patriotic
men; but as to their foresight, it would seem that we are to-day a
living witness that they were quite incapable of seeing into the
political future. We are now demanding that the Electoral College shall
be abolished, and the President be elected by a direct popular vote; and
yet nothing is surer than that the distinct purpose of the founders of
our Federal Union was to prevent such an election. Their design was to
establish, not a democratic government, working more or less by
mass-meeting--a direct vote of the mass of the citizens--but a
representative republican government, in which the people should commit
their affairs to their representatives, who should have full power to
manage them according to their discretion, entirely irrespective of the
dictation of their constituents, although not without respect for their
opinions and wishes. The doctrine of instruction, by which the
representative is turned into a mere delegate--a sort of political
attorney--is new and is entirely at variance with the design of the
founders of the republic, to which, of course, the Constitution was
adapted. It was supposed, assumed as a matter of course, by them that
there would always be a body of men of high character and intelligence,
who would have sufficient leisure to perform the functions of
legislators, governors, and other officers, for a small compensation,
and that the people at large would freely commit their affairs to these
gentlemen, choosing, of course, those whose general political views were
most in accordance with their own. So it was at the time of the war of
Independence, and at that of the formation of the Constitution. Of such
a political conception the Electoral College was a legitimate product.
The "Fathers" didn't _mean_ that the people should decide between the
merits of the candidates for the Presidency. They thought--and shall we
therefore decry their wisdom?--that a small body of intelligent and well
educated men, men of character and social position, accustomed to the
study of public affairs, was better fitted to choose such an officer as
the President of the United States than the whole mass of the people.
Moreover, the people themselves have changed, and have become in
substance and in condition something that the "Fathers" did not dream
of. States in which the vote of the mass of the citizens should be in
the hands of <DW64>s or of emigrants from the peasant class of Europe
were not among the political conditions for which their foresight
provided.


--The great controlling fact in our politics is this one, so little
regarded not only by the general public, but by men in active political
life--the thorough change which has taken place in our society and in
the attitude of the people toward the Government. As a consequence of
this change, political power has passed almost entirely out of the hands
of the class of men to whom the framers of our Constitution intended to
commit the administration of the Government which they called into
being. It has fallen into those of men generally much inferior in
cultivation and in position. And as we have already said, the very
substance of the political constituency has changed. A suffrage
practically universal and a controlling vote in one part of the country
of emancipated <DW64> slaves and in the other of uneducated foreign
emigrants was not the political power to which Franklin, and Jefferson,
and Hamilton and Adams, and their co-workers, supposed they were
required to adapt their frame of government. And now no small part of
our difficulty arises from the failure of a very large portion of our
people, North as well as South, to perceive or at least fully to
appreciate this change and its inevitable consequences. It is agreed by
all students of political history, that the weakness of a written
constitution lies in its inflexibility; and the error of many of our
political managers lies in their failure to appreciate this truth and
their assumption that the country is to be governed now just as it was
in the days of Washington. But the fact is that such a condition of
political affairs as now exists in South Carolina and in Louisiana would
have been not only morally but physically impossible in the earlier
years of the republic. "The people" in those States, and to a certain
extent in all the States, but chiefly at the South, has not the same
meaning that it had three-quarters of a century ago. Over the whole
country the conditions of our political problem have changed; but most
of all there; and the result is a strain upon our political
institutions, and even upon our social institutions, which taxes their
stability to the utmost. The present crisis is only inferior in its
gravity to that which preceded the attempted secession; and now as then
South Carolina takes the lead. But serious as the peril is, we shall
pass through it safely. We did not emerge safely from the greater
danger, to be overwhelmed by the less. Wisdom and firmness in the
highest degree are demanded by the emergency; but wisdom and firmness
will control it, and whatever measures may become necessary we may be
sure that they will be fraught with no peril to our liberties, or to
the stability of our Government. The nervous apprehension exhibited by
some people that any grave political disturbance and consequent
manifestation of power on the part of the central Government is likely
to end in a usurpation, and an enslavement of the American people, may
be surely characterized, if not as weak, at least as unwarranted. Think
of it coolly for a moment, and see how absurd it is. Any man born and
bred in the United States ought to be ashamed to entertain such a notion
for a moment. If we look back through the long and weary years of our
civil war, we shall find that mistakes were made on the side of the
arbitrary exercise of power, from which a few individuals suffered; but
indefensible as some of these were, according to the strict letter of
the law, we can now see their real harmlessness to the public as clearly
as we see the error of those who committed them. At no time have our
liberties been in less peril than when the President of the United
States had under his absolute command an army larger than that ever
actually controlled by any monarch (fables and exaggerations allowed
for), and when the warrant of the Secretary of War would have lodged any
man in a Federal fortress. We see now the folly of the vaticinations
against the endurance of our liberty which were uttered by many foreign
wiseacres and some weak-kneed natives. Whatever may come of our present
trouble, let us not forget the lessons of our recent experience. In
spite of any bugaboo we shall remain a Federal republic and a free
people.


--One accompaniment of the singular result of the election has been
sufficiently ridiculous--the daily reports of "the situation" as they
appeared in the columns and at the doors of the Republican and
Democratic newspapers. The phrase "to lie like a bulletin" has been
justified to the fullest extent. On which side lay the deviation from
truth it was impossible to say; but if one respectable journal's
assertions were true, the others surely were false. It was strange and
laughable to read on one bulletin board, "Republican Victory! Election
of Hayes! South Carolina and Florida ours by large majorities!" and then
to find only a few yards off a no less flaming announcement of
"Democratic Triumph! Tilden elected! South Carolina and Florida give
decided Democratic majorities!" And this was not only ridiculous, but
somewhat incomprehensible. For the newspapers which made these flatly
contradictory announcements at the same time and within short distances,
all equally prided themselves on their reputation as purveyors of
news--news that could be relied upon. Moreover, their means of obtaining
news are pretty well known to the public and quite well to each other.
True the "reliable gentleman," and the "distinguished member of
Congress," figured somewhat largely as the sources of those very
discrepant statements; and those persons are notoriously untrustworthy;
even more so than the "intelligent contraband" of the war times. But
after all it was a puzzle--unless, indeed, upon the assumption that
these newspapers published each of them, not what they knew to be the
fact, but what they thought their readers would like to be told; a
theory not to be entertained for a moment. Nevertheless the facts as
they presented themselves did seem to be worthy of some candid
consideration by the journalistic mind; for to mere outsiders they
seemed to point to the prudence and safety, to say the least, of more
caution and reserve of assertion, with the certainty that the
introduction of these new elements into the news department of
journalism would tend to the elevation of the profession, and would
beget a confidence in that department of our leading journals which it
may perhaps be safely said does not exist in a very high degree at
present. Possibly, however, the question may have presented itself in
this form to the journalistic mind: "If we continue to announce victory
for our own party, and it so turns out in the end, we are all right, and
we shall have pleased our readers." If the contrary, we shall merely
have to denounce the frauds of our opponents which have falsified the
truth that we told, and we shall have pleased our readers all the same."
Ingenious gentlemen.


--Among the humors of the election is one so significant that it should
not be allowed to pass by unrecorded. One Irish "American" was
describing to another the glories of a procession which had made night
hideous to those not particularly interested in it; and he closed the
glowing account by saying, "Oh, it wuz an illigent purrceshin intoirely!
<DW37>'l a naygur or a Yankee int' ut!" Doubtless this gentleman would
think an election equally illigant in which neither a naygur nor a
Yankee presumed to vote.


--The period of the election excitement was marked also by the close of
the great Centennial Exhibition, which must be regarded as a very great
success, and which, we are pleased to record, proved far more successful
pecuniarily than we anticipated that it would. Among the grand
expositions of the world's industry this one stands alone, we believe,
in its possession of a surplus over and above its enormous expenses.
This, however, is but one witness to the admirable manner in which it
was managed. But even if it had failed in this respect, as at first it
seemed probable that it would, the money lost would have been well spent
in producing the impression which it left upon all, or nearly all, of
the intelligent foreigners whom it drew to Philadelphia. We happen to
have heard some of these, who had not only been present at other
exhibitions of the same kind in Europe, but had held the position of
judges there, say that the Philadelphia exhibition was superior to all
the others, not, it is true, in the beauty and value of the foreign
articles exhibited, but in the native productions and in the
arrangement, the system and discipline of the whole affair. The American
machinery and tools elicited the highest admiration from qualified
European judges. They found in them the results of a union of the
highest scientific acquirement with a corresponding excellence of
material and exactness in manufacture. All the tools used in the higher
departments of mechanics elicited this expression of admiration, and
with regard to those exhibited by two or three manufacturers the
approbation was without qualification and in the highest terms. This
result will be largely beneficial to our national reputation; for it was
just in these respects, science, thoroughness, and exactness, that our
foreign critics were prepared to find us wanting.


--The richness and variety of American slang is remarked upon by almost
all English travellers, who, however, might find at home, in the
language of high-born people, departures from purity quite as frequent
and as great as those prevalent with us, although perhaps not so gross;
for it must be confessed that most of our slang is coarse and offensive,
at least in form. But the most remarkable American peculiarity in regard
to slang, or indeed in regard to any new fangle in language, is the
quickness with which it is adopted, and comes, if not into general use,
into general knowledge. This readiness of adaptability to slang may,
however, be attributed almost entirely to the reporters and
correspondents, and "makers-up" of our newspapers, who catch eagerly at
anything new in phraseology as well as in fact, to give a temporary
interest to their ephemeral writing. Here, for example, is the word
"bulldose," the occasion of our remarks. A man who went on a journey to
South America or to Europe four months ago would have departed in the
depths of deplorable ignorance as to the very existence of this lovely
word; returning now, he would find it in full possession of the
newspapers--appearing in correspondence, in reports, in sensation
headlines, and even in leading articles. Although to the manner born, he
would be puzzled at the phraseology of the very newspaper which mingled
itself with his earliest recollections and with his breakfast; for there
he would find the new word in all possible forms and under all possible
modifications: _bulldose_, the noun, _to bulldose_, the verb,
_bulldosing_, the present participle, _bulldosed_, the past participle,
and even, to the horror of the author of "Words and their Uses," and in
spite of him, _being bulldosed_, "the continuing participle of the
passive voice." Such a phenomenon in language is peculiar to this
country. But notwithstanding the fears of the purists and the
philologers, it does not threaten the existence of the English language
here, nor is it at all likely to affect it permanently even by the
addition of one phrase or word. For our use of slang of this kind is the
most fleeting of temporary fashions. Such slang passes rapidly into use
and into general recognition, and passes as quickly out again.
Bartlett's "Dictionary of Americanisms" is full of words of this
kind--_locofoco_, for example--which lived their short lives, and then
passed not only out of use, but out of memory. While they are in vogue,
however, they deform our speech, and they tend to increase our habits of
looseness in language; and they bring reproach upon us such as that with
an allusion to which we began this item. For our reputation's sake we
should stop this; it subjects us with some reason to ridicule. But we
shall not stop, because the men who could stop it--the editors--will not
do so. Very few newspapers in the country--only two or three--are really
edited as to the language used in them; and as to slang of this sort, it
is regarded as something pleasant to the ears of the average reader, who
is supposed to think it funny. This is enough. If the readers want it,
the editors will furnish it; and so we may expect to be "bulldosed," or
otherwise dosed with some like nauseous mess of language, until
journalism has some other purpose than to pander to the lower cravings
of the moment.


--It is said that in the schools for girls it is now becoming the
fashion to teach the large angular handwriting which is commonly used by
Englishwomen. The announcement is welcome and surprising in one respect;
for it implies that writing is taught in schools, as to which an
acquaintance with the chirography of the rising generation justly
awakens some doubts. But as to the beneficial result of the adoption of
the style in question, that is a matter of some uncertainty. This
angular English hand is very elegant and lovely to look upon in a little
note, particularly if it assures you of the fair writer's high regard,
or asks you to dinner. But in fact it is so uncertain in its forms that
sometimes it is quite difficult to tell which is meant, the high regard
or the dinner. We have heard of one case of deplorable uncertainty. A
lady going out of town hastily on a short visit left a key upon her
husband's table with a slip of paper on which was written in the new
style a few words which after much toil and with the hint from the key,
he deciphered and read as "Key of wine closet. Please put on gin-sling."
He was amazed; for whatever his fondness might have been for gin-sling,
it was not his habit to put it on the table. Wherefore he inferred that
instead of "gin-sling" he should read "green seal," but there was none
of that brand of champagne in the wine closet. Further investigation led
him to adopt the reading, "please put on full swing." This, however, he
abandoned as not exactly a feminine exhortation in that particular
matter. Then for "gin-sling" he read "gunning," and "gun sing," and
"grinning," all of course to be abandoned in their turn. Submitted to an
expert, the elegant lines were pronounced to be unmistakably, "Key of
wine closet. Recase pat on gnu eing," not a highly intelligible letter
of instruction. Finally, in his perplexity, he remembered something that
the lady had once said upon the subject of the danger of leaving the
particular key in question lying about loose or even in an accessible
drawer, and then it flashed upon him that the writing was, or was meant
to be, "Key of wine closet. Please put on your ring." Hence it appears
that the elegant English hand is very easily read when you know what the
fair writer means to say. Observe, too, that the perplexity would have
been obviated by the introduction of a much needed pronoun--_it_. If the
lady had written, "Put it," etc., there would have been a guide out of
the labyrinth. No small part of the obscurity found in writing arises
from compression. It is better to take the trouble to write two words,
and thereby be understood, than to write one, in angular Anglican
elegance, and leave your reader in darkness.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Galaxy, by Various

*** 