The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Galaxy, June 1877, by Various

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Title: The Galaxy, June 1877
       Vol. XXIII.--June, 1877.--No. 6.

Author: Various

Release Date: April 21, 2010 [EBook #32075]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1


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VOL. XXIII.—JUNE, 1877.—No. 6.


What art thou doing here, O Imagination? Go away, I entreat thee by the gods, as thou didst come, for I want thee not. But thou art come according to thy old fashion. I am not angry with thee—only go away.—Marcus Antoninus.

L ilac hazes veil the skies.

Languid sighs

Breathes the mild, caressing air.

Pink as coral's branching sprays,

Orchard ways

With the blossomed peach are fair.

Sunshine, cordial as a kiss,

Poureth bliss

In this craving soul of mine,

And my heart her flower-cup

Lifteth up,

Thirsting for the draught divine.

Swift the liquid golden flame

Through my frame

Sets my throbbing veins afire.

Bright, alluring dreams arise,

Brim mine eyes

With the tears of strong desire.

All familiar scenes anear


Homestead, orchard, field, and wold.

Moorish spires and turrets fair

Cleave the air,

Arabesqued on skies of gold.

Lo, my spirit, this May morn,

Outward borne,

Over seas hath taken wing:

Where the mediæval town,

Like a crown,

Wears the garland of the Spring.

Light and sound and odors sweet

Fill the street;

Gypsy girls are selling flowers.

Lean hidalgos turn aside,


'Neath the grim cathedral towers.

Oh, to be in Spain to-day,

Where the May

Recks no whit of good or evil,

Love and only love breathes she!

Oh, to be

'Midst the olive-rows of Seville!

Or on such a day to glide

With the tide

Of the berylline lagoon,

Through the streets that mirror heaven,

Crystal paven,

In the warm Venetian noon.

At the prow the gondolier

May not hear,

May not see our furtive kiss;

But he lends with cadenced strain

The refrain

To our ripe and silent bliss.

Golden shadows, silver light,

Burnish bright

Air and water, domes and skies;

As in some ambrosial dream,

On the stream

Floats our bark in magic wise.

Oh, to float day long just so!

Naught to know

Of the trouble, toil, and fret!

This is love, and this is May:


And to-morrow to forget!

Whither hast thou, Fancy free,

Guided me,

Wild Bohemian sister dear?

All thy gypsy soul is stirred

Since yon bird

Warbled that the Spring was here.

Tempt no more! I may not follow,

Like the swallow,

Gayly on the track of Spring.

Bounden by an iron fate,

I must wait,

Dream and wonder, yearn and sing.

Emma Lazarus.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877, by SHELDON & CO. in the office of
Librarian of Congress, at Washington.



18 Stanfield Gardens, Curly bracket
South Kensington,
May 28, 1875.

And there you have us down to date, my Susie. The sunshine and the crisp breezes, the innocent early teas with cresses and prawns, the grand long nights full of sleep, have put us all right with the world again; but after all Brighton's only a bit of West End moved off down by the sea, and if one must live in London at all, why, it's at its best for three or four weeks to come. And we're to get off early to Switzerland this year, for fear that it mayn't be so easy next summer. For Ronayne's father is clearing away to make him stand for that dreary territory of hovels and bogs in which the paternal mansion is situate. Fancy Ronayne an M.P.! And an Irish M.P.! I fight against it—under cover. The dream of my heart is an appartement avec tenasse in Paris, and in summer to turn vagrants and tramps as now. It's so unlucky Ronayne should have been the eldest son: duty, respectability, and the proprieties have such a much stronger gripe upon him, and we're born vagabonds, both.

But, what must be, must. Meanwhile I console myself with my window-gardening. And you should see the house-front!—the balcony that will be a perfect bower presently. My window-boxes, the gayest mosaics of color, and the vestibule lined with callas, acacias, and heath—against a background of ferns and ivy. We were never so magnificent before, and it was Ronayne's surprise for me when we came back from the sea—he having given our florist carte-blanche; whereas I, bearing a conscience, have bargained with him always, and carefully counted my pots.

Mrs. Malise's disciplinary Johanna brought her charge for a little visit to my nursery yesterday. And my heart aches so for that baby! He's a great child, well made, and with his mother's wonderful eyes—but so heavy, listless—"Meek as a work'us' child brought up on skilly," Ronayne renders it—and though he's perfectly clean now, and comfortably clad, nobody would dream he was a young mother's first baby, so ornamentless and sombre-hued are his little garments.

Nurse brings back indignant accounts of the way he's left to amuse himself, or cry his fill, when out for an airing in Kensington Gardens. "Hours, ma'am, she keep that poor thing a-frettin' or a-sleepin' in his perambulator, the east wind a-cuttin' about him as draughty as draughty, while she sits on a bench a-makin' her foolish lace or talkin' to some of them German bandmen. He never gets taken out, nor played with, nor has any playthings. It's just cruelty to animals—that's what it is!" finishes my nursery dragon, who is as soft-hearted as she is grim of exterior and grammatically independent in speech.

Mrs. Malise has been absent at suffrage meetings in Scotland and Ireland for a month past, Miss Hedges told me when dining here just after our return. Mrs. Stainton, the porcelain widow, was invited also, and a curious and wonderfully interesting person we find her: the daintiest small creature—complexion like an ivory painting, deep-set, seeress eyes, and looking fairly spirit-like for fragility, in her long black dress and white lace shawl. Nothing could well be more piquant than to hear this filmy little thing, in a voice that would have fitted Queen Mab, recount her experiences in the most widely separated circles of life and thought, or quietly give utterance to quaint, audacious speculations, as to mysteries that perplex so many of us concerning this existence and the eternity it preludes. "If there be a hereafter!" I heard some one answer to a remark of hers. "Ah, that was never a doubt to me save for a very brief space," she replied. "I am like the Curé de Ars—'I know some one who would be finely taken in if there were no Paradise!'" Her exquisiteness of look, the fascinating talk, the soft, helpless manner are so appealing that one is disposed to treat her as some wandered denizen of the air and skies, though she hangs effortless, her whole weight upon one, and there is scarce a limit to her fine-lady and delicate-organization requirements.

The daughter of a Low Church dean, she became, in her husband's time, first broad church, then rationalist; after his death, because of extraordinary, extra natural occurrences that befell her, a spiritualist, and now she seems to be turning toward Catholicism, though Miss Hedges, who is a Catholic, shakes her head, and says she always feels very hopeless of people essentially given to all manner of vague interpretations, fanciful twistings of simple doctrine, and æsthetic sentimental mysticism.

"Obedience is in the order of existence," says the little lady. "I long for authority; I long for a voice I shall not question, to whose decision I can submit all the questions that torture me."

"I tried to stay my soul with ritualism," she said, talking to Miss H. and myself when we were alone after dinner, "and at first I thought I was going to get some comfort out of it. I made my father furious by entering one of Miss ——'s famous sisterhoods. But it wouldn't do. Ritualism of course was not more illogical then than now, but the actors weren't as well up in their parts, and how queer some of our performances at —— were! I remember a retreat I made there, in which I was put into a cell bare of everything save a table and chair, and a Testament upon the table, and there I was left alone the whole day, seeing no creature save a Sister who, speechless, thrust my dinner and tea in at me! You may imagine the imbecile condition in which night found me.

"And as a punishment for some fault I was ordered to go to communion for four months without going to confession! Miss ——, our Reverend Mother, behaved exactly as if she had taken her notions of the external character and dignities of her office from some swelling, stern, ridiculous Lady Abbess in a no-popery novel! We undertook everything—teaching, the care of hospitals, training of servants, district work, Magdalen houses, and to these active employments we joined the contemplative, strictly cloistered life! We had no special training for either one of our labors; we had no completed constitutions or rule, and one was liable, at any moment, to be whisked from one's quiet cell and sent alone at night, across the kingdom, to some duty for which one was no more fitted than a baby or a savage.

"I was set, in the beginning, to clean lamps, and black-lead the grates, but failed in this business so completely that I was given a district in East London to afflict with visitations and instructions. Trying one day to convey some idea of the Real Presence to a voluble old woman who was one of the sisterhood's most devoted protégées, I said, 'Then, Sally, since you know who is in the church, I hope you never go in or out without showing proper respect.' 'Oh, yessum, yessum!' she assured me. 'Indeed, 'm, I allays bobs to the eagle!' (the brass eagle of the lectern!). With all Sally's bobbings to the eagle and to us sisters, she was a dreadful old harpy, and made me think always of two old women my father overheard talking one day at Cirencester. There is a fund there which was long ago bequeathed by some pious person for the furnishing small stipends to such aged poor people as should daily devoutly hear mass. Of course since the revenues have lapsed into Anglican hands this sum is used now for those who attend the early service. And this was what my father heard:

"First old crone, loquitur: 'These be hard times, Betty. How d'ye think of getting a livelihood this winter?'

"Second old crone: 'They be hard, for shore, Anne, and I'm a-thinking of taking to yorly priors (early prayers) for a quarter!'

"One of my droll, dreadful district visitor experiences I shall never forget. In the process of my visitations I stumbled, one day, into the room of a woman very haggard and very yellow, but as the woman was dressed and moving actively about, I had no idea of her having any special ailment, save dirt. But as soon as she knew who I was, a visiting Sister, she began to tell me how ill she was—ill of a disease that not another person in the whole kingdom had—the doctor said so—spotted leprosy. And how physicians came constantly to see her, and brought, each one, other physicians—how, in short of a horrible long, she was a sort of gruesome doctor's pet!

"The woman's husband—for she was married, had eleven children, and another baby coming soon—was working away at a cobbler's bench in the room's only window, and she constantly appealed to him: 'Dr. So-and-So said there wasn't another case like mine in this country, didn't he, Jim? And he didn't see how it was it hadn't killed me off long ago—you remember, Jim? And that young Scotch doctor that was so astonished to see what a family I had—you haven't forgotten him, have you, Jim?' And the man corroborated all her statements with a pride in having a wife so uniquely afflicted impossible to describe! Then she insisted I must see and dress the awful sores that made her shoulders and one breast a great wound, telling me, as I half fainted over the task, that I didn't do it half so well as any of the doctors, and begging me, when I had finished, to stop long enough for her to give me a cup of tea in that place, insufferable at best with the dirty cobbler and five or six of the wretched babies, but become, after my mauvais quart d'heure with the terrible woman, a chamber of horrors in which to delay one further instant would, I felt, make me daft, or shudderingly sea-sick, for life!

"I stopped a year and a half in the sisterhood, trying, as I said, to make it do; but either I'm too logical, or have too keen a sense of the ridiculous, for the farce of our active-uncloistered-severely-contemplative-enclosed life, a religious order without a constitution, frowned on by all the bishops, carrying on its dearest devotional practices in hiding from all proper ecclesiastical authority, became intolerable to me; and when, one fine day, there came from 'Reverend Mother' an order to go and nurse a man ill with typhus—an agricultural laborer living alone in his cottage—and to my remonstrances that I knew nothing of the disease, my plea for a companion less ignorant or at least clear instructions for my own guidance, no answer was vouchsafed save an oracular assurance that if I did my part of obedience, light would be given me, I revolted, sent a contumacious message that though I believed the age of miracles by no means past, I had never seen any wrought in our order, and could not risk the poor man's life upon so vague a prospect, and presently bid farewell to my Anglican convent and to ritualism. Several Sisters have returned to the world since, and four of these have gone over to Rome. Two of these have married. One, whom I loved most dearly, is a Poor Clare in Ireland, and the other has used her fortune to open a crèche, where she works harder than any of her nurses, and carries, I should say, the lightest heart in London.

"I have no doubt there is more system, more decorum—I use the word in its literal sense—in the Anglican sisterhoods now. I'm quite amazed sometimes at the closeness of the imitation of the real thing when I go to Margaret street, or to St. Alban's—the altars, the lights, the confessionals, the stations, the black-cassocked figures gliding about, removing their berettas and dropping on one knee as they pass the altar—all the furniture; but a dreadful feeling of emptiness—as if the house's owner had moved away! Do you ever look at the pictures and the titles of books in the windows of the High Church bookshops? What would have been thought of them five years ago even? And at ——'s in Oxford street, a High Church friend tells me, they have a room into which you may be ushered by inquiring for the 'Penitential Department,' if the card bearing the name of a clerical voucher, which you must present, be satisfactory, and where you may purchase disciplines—nail-studded armlets, waist-belts—perhaps hair shirts, though I don't remember that they figured in my friend's list.

"And, two years ago, I think it was, I witnessed a little scene that was as extraordinary as it was absurd. I was coming up from Cromer, and our train had halted for the usual time in the station at Norwich. It's a large station, trains constantly rolling in and out, and crowds of passengers, guards, porters flying about. While we waited, above the din suddenly was heard a singular and regular thud! thud! coming down the platform. Thud! thud! on it came, and the noise, and the queer, sudden hush of most of the other racket made us all look eagerly out to see what it could be. It was a progression—a procession—a man in soutane, barefooted, I believe, preceded by some sort of a servitor carrying a monstrous book—breviary, 'Livre des Heures'—I know not what, and a tall wooden crosier, whose foot it was that made the thud! thud! At a little distance behind the man in the soutane, whom I recognized directly as Mr. Lyne—the famous Father Ignatius, a self constituted Benedictine Abbot—followed two Anglican Sisters. The servitor and Father Ignatius betook themselves into a first-class carriage, the Sisters remaining outside, and presently the crosier head was thrust out of the window, and Father Ignatius appeared behind it with hand outstretched to bless the Sisters, who knelt devoutly on the platform to receive the benediction. Up to this point everybody had behaved with wonderful restraint; but the last stroke was too much, and it was amid a perfect scream of laughter from passengers, officials, cabmen, and gamins, that the train steamed out of the station, bearing the Benedictine Abbot away, but surely not leaving the lambs of the flock comfortless."

And so she goes on for as long as you like. She has been everywhere. She has known quantities of out-of-the-way people. She is ready at every turn with a fresh story, an apposite bit of experience, and darts in an instant from the perfect mimicry of a popular vicar we know, who preaches in lavender kids, and leaving his cure of souls for a month's holiday, pathetically from the pulpit entreats our Lord to look after his charge until its proper shepherd returns, to some speculation concerning personal accountability, an annunciation of the reasonableness of purgatory, and wondering as to its various forms of discipline for individual souls, or to dwell on minute phases of the preservation of identity, distinctive and original character after death, etc., and manifests altogether such an at-homeness with the unseen world that, listening to her, I half expect phantom eyes will look into mine if I glance back over either shoulder, bodiless somethings start forward from dusky corners, the very sweep of my own drawing-room curtains gets eerie, a what-not or a tabouret becomes a tripod, my unsubstantial small guest is a priestess—and I'm glad when Ronayne's voice breaks in, "All in the dark, the fire at its last coal, no tea or coffee. Mrs. Stainton, you're a syren!"

Her own little sitting-room in the associate house is as heterogeneous as herself—the room lined with soft comforts, the air heavy with the fragrance of a profusion of flowers, the room's mistress nearly lost in the capaciousness of a most luxurious lounging chair, her table piled with ascetic literature; and in this chamber I encountered the other day the very oddest of all the peculiar people to whom my friendship for "little Malaise" has introduced me—a Miss Beauclerc, a short, stout, dark, coarse-skinned woman of fifty odd, hair cropped close, and an obstinate, honest, horse face.

She was exhibiting her own "spirit drawings"—mad scaramouches, things like designs for eastern embroidery, accurate representations of various portions of the kingdom of heaven, she assured me, and a quantity of utterly purposeless collections of strokes and dots, to which she gave names that would have been blasphemous in any but a lunatic's mouth. How she explained them! How fondly she looked at them! and what anguish she told me she endured lest they should be injured, or perish in some unworthy way. This woman believes herself to be the spirit bride of ——! Can you fancy it? one of the most fervent, poetic, spiritual, gifted of all Anglican divines. She says that since his death he has been constantly near her. She sees him often, leads the life he prescribes, making and shunning acquaintances at his direction, going from place to place, crossing the ocean twice even at his pleasure. Finally she showed a photograph—the faithfulest possible presentment of her own unideal face and person, with, floating above, arms extended in protecting angel guise, a mistily outlined, veiled figure surmounted by the refined, beautiful face known to everybody in the later editions of his poems, and in the windows of church bookshops—the poor clergyman who is allowed to rest neither in his grave nor in any unknown country beyond. It is hard for him, hard for Mrs. ——, were she to hear of this post-mortem masquerading and "affinity," hard for the deluded woman who wanders about the world alone with her crazy fancies, repudiated by her kindred, and plundered by the brigandish among her co-believers.

Here, too, I met again the tall, thin young lady, heroine of the device for frightening small bores—the Plymouth Sister's daughter. We talked of a good many things, but chiefly of marriage, and the position of unmarried women in England. The girl was as simply frank as a child. Matrimony, and matrimony alone, offered any career to women in England. And upon Mrs. Stainton's saying that despite her own perfect marriage—a marriage for love, and the union so entire that there lurked no shadowy region in her soul of which she could not make her husband as free as herself to enter—yet all that she had seen of life made her feel sure that, beyond a few rare exceptions, it mattered not, ten years after marriage, whether the match had been for love solely, or arranged, or a mariage de convenance, the girl assented; somewhat bitterly remarked that ideals were very well for a heroic life, but terrible drawbacks in the world of to-day, and that any woman would do better for herself to accept any reasonably suitable offer than to cling to an impossible dream, or insist upon a great amount of sentiment. "It ought to be enough," said this girl of the period, "for a woman to be able to decently respect a man who has the means of placing her in such conditions as she thinks will suit her. And men do very well without sentiment. They have their professions, their business, their friends, their clubs. It is quite enough for them if their wives are fairly good housekeepers and mothers, presentable at head of their tables, pleasant hostesses in their drawing-rooms. It sounds very mean, but what is a girl to do? We may be most of us clever enough and tolerably well educated, but there are not among us many brilliant geniuses who can find all comfort and happiness in a life devoted, wholly to art or literature. What is one of the mediocre mass to do? It's not genteel to do this, it's unfeminine to do that; one can't stir in any direction that would have in it some spirit, some earnest, something worth while.

"You can always do good, they tell us. I dare say; so can men; but how many among them would like to be recommended, as life occupation, to go making impertinent raids into poor people's houses to tell them they're untidy, when a family has but one room to live in, and there's but one water tap in the court, and two or three flights of stairs over which to carry every drop; or that they're ill-smelling, and will have fever, when an open drain and the dust bin are lodged just under the window, and somebody's great high wall cuts off every ray of sunshine; or that they don't know how to manage because they fare ill, when a half dozen people must keep life in them and some covering on them on fifteen shillings a week? Oh, I'm sick of it all! Look at mamma! She lives in jails, up alleys, in soup kitchens and dispensaries, and we girls cut out and make up flannels, and knew about relief tickets before we could speak, and it's all just pouring water into a sieve! Mamma's always in agonies about some protégée she's placed somewhere, who has absconded with the family plate and wardrobe. Her people are always getting drunk, fighting, or cheating her in some monstrous way. Her nicest girls run off with a strolling theatre company, or to dance in the ballet. There's no end to her miseries, and the people she spends her whole time, strength, and all the money she can spare and beg upon are not really much better off in the end. But even if they were? Mamma is mamma, and I am myself, and we're differing stars. No, I stick to my text. To be only a commonly contented married woman, with the shelter and freedom of a wife's position, with a house to keep, children and servants to look after, and with a certain amount of social influence, is better than to subside into a grim or fidgetty old maid in lodgings, with a dog and three-volume novels to get through the days and years with; to be snubbed and sneered at by men; to have, when one's hair is white as time can make it, the privilege of walking meekly out to dinner behind one's grand niece, a silly chit of eighteen, married a twelvemonth—and nobody to care whether one lives or dies, unless perhaps a Bath chair man.

"Matrimony's the only career for women in England, but we ought to be trained for it on Gradgrind principles. As it is, we're far too æsthetic and sentimental for the mates we must have—if any. Poetry and the stories of fine, gracious, self-sacrificing lives ought to be suppressed; they're ruinous reading for this nineteenth century." And so on and on.

"There's reason for that poor girl's bitterness," said Mrs. Stainton when we were again alone. "A dozen years ago, in her first and second seasons out, a more charming creature it would have been hard to find—ingenuous, sunny tempered, a dashing, sparkling blonde beauty, full of Irish quickness and fun, and a favorite wherever she went. Unluckily she met Ward Cotterell—now one of the editors of 'The Phare'—then a radiant, double first, handsome, chivalric, but as poor and debt-laden as he was clever, and the pair fell desperately in love. Mrs. Dixon wouldn't let them call themselves engaged. She had crippled her own fortune, and Kate had sacrificed a great part of her own portion, to clear a spendthrift eldest son and brother of his difficulties, and start him afresh in Ceylon, so that aid on their part was impossible, and Cotterell, after a year or so's trying vainly in this and that direction, for an income, gave up the struggle, married an heiress, who paid his debts, brought him £40,000 then, and has inherited since £60,000, and within six months after his marriage had his place on the 'Phare' offered him, with a salary of £1,200 a year. 'What would I not have given a year ago for any sort of hard work that would have made me sure of £500 a year?' he said to some friend who knew the little story.

"Poor Kate kept up pretty well. 'What else could he do?' she always says. 'He had no income, and mine would have barely given us shelter.' But she refused offer after offer for years. Now, when she finds admiration less freely forthcoming, and is utterly weary of everything she has tried, or believes is in store for her, I dare say she fancies she regrets the lost chances, but she's too genuine to make a mariage de convenance, let her talk as cynically as she will.

"As for Cotterell, he hasn't a money anxiety in the world, and is reckoned one of the most brilliant leader writers in London; but his wife is the most commonplace woman alive—no more a companion to him than a housemaid would be; and Cotterell's not one of the clever men who like women to be pillows, and pillows only. He has given up society, save that of men, almost entirely; lives in his study and his room in the 'Phare' building, and his talk, when one meets him, is a mixture of fatalism and wormwood, depressing to the last degree. No hero he, and yet his fate has plenty of compensations that Kate's lacks—power, work, and two or three children that have inherited his wit as well as his handsome looks.

"Oh, what a world it is!—a world of infinite pettinesses. I'm dreadfully poor and cowardly myself, but I've always had the greatest reverence for the gift of immortality, and I used to think if I could have chosen, I would have been born and then have died directly. But now that I believe unbaptized babies and people whose goodness, however perfect, is only natural, will have, in another existence, but natural beatitude, and as such a state wouldn't at all satisfy me for an eternity, I should have to tarry long enough to be baptized, and after that one can't wish to run away directly from the foes one has just promised to war against. A soul is such a responsibility, and is always thrusting in to complicate and confuse matters!

"But, do you know, I think so often what an admirable, harmonious, earthly preface to eternal bliss in the natural order would Anglicanism be—Anglicanism of the moderate type, a little quickened with the evangelical element, but neither high nor low. The life, as I remember it in the close at ——, was so pleasant, so decorous, so amiable, so full of good, comfortable, luxurious things, so ladylike and gentlemanly, so reputable. One kept the commandments mainly; one was never anything but high-bred and high-toned; one did one's duty too—taught a little in the schools; looked after the rheumatic old bodies in cottages delightfully picturesque to sketch, but dark and damp as graves to live in; handed buns and tea at the school treats; one wasn't always thinking about delicate matters of conscience, about renunciation, self-abnegation, and what it must mean to be a soldier under a captain who neither lived delicately, nor slept softly, nor was used to stately shelter—a crucified head whose arms are the instruments of the Passion—and how well off one's body was!"

And I've been—no, I've been bidden to the Dialectical Society. You don't know what that is, my barbaric New Zealander? And I didn't know either when Mr. Malise sent me tickets for one evening, specially urging my attendance, as there would be something well worth hearing—a paper on "Celibacy" read by its author, a gifted young girl of only twenty-two!

I took my tickets to my liege. "Ronayne, fount of wisdom and light, whatever may the Dialectical Society be?"

"The Dialectical Society, madam, is a body of men and women who meet to rake up, turn over, and discuss to all their verges subjects which the weaker mass of mortals think upon only on compulsion, with fear and trembling, and in mental sackcloth and ashes. And pray, what have you to do with Dialecticals, Eve? We are not going there, if that's what those tickets mean!"

"Oh, Adam! And why not? Because I'm, unluckily, married, am I to stop trying to improve myself, and not care to know what grand heights happier, unhampered women are scaling? And, Adam, only see, here's to be a paper read by a young lady only twenty-two, Mr. Malise says, and there couldn't be anything so very dreadful to hear in the little composition of an innocent young creature like that!"

"'Subject, Celibacy, by Eliza Stella Greatheart, M.D.,'" read Ronayne. "Humph! charming young creature! Well, madam Lil, you'll have to imagine what the medical young lady will say on the state she's proved to such ripeness of years, for you're not likely to hear, and Mr. Malise has wasted his tickets. And as if you cared what anybody could say about single blessedness—a woman with an angel in the nursery crib, and a husband who breathes but to serve her! Go away this minute!" And I left monseigneur to his moutons, a little huffed, no doubt, at being interrupted in the fine middle of a working morning—always "The Growth of Language"; and you should see the pile of MSS. I used to copy for him, but lately it has taken so much time to sketch my baby! Every new attitude is prettier than the last, and every day adds a charm. You need not laugh; I never had a baby before. Just wait until you know for yourself! I've painted the darling twice, once for Ronayne's father, though a little against the grain, for the old gentleman thinks it dreadfully infra dig. that I, a lady born, and I most especially a lady wed, should ever have been publicly catalogued as an artist in exhibition lists and newspaper notices, and have sold the labor of my hands, eyes, and brain in the marketplace. What would happen if he caught sudden sight of a memento that always goes with me in one of my boxes—a little tin sign, my first one; and how proud I was of it!

Fraulein Lilian Macfarlane.

I don't like, for the family's sake, to imagine. When Ronayne gave him the picture on his birthday, our joint offering, my work set in the loveliest frame Ronayne could find, he couldn't help being pleased, and he couldn't help knowing it was baby's very self; but if the picture had been the work of a paid artist, I know he would have been wonderfully soothed. The picture was on exhibition for some days in the morning room, and being one day in the conservatory with Ronayne, I heard his father expatiating upon the striking likeness that had been happily caught, to a lady visitor. Presently I heard her read the signature, "Lil. De Vere, del., 1873." "Why, it is your daughter-in-law's work! How charming for a mother to be able to paint such an admirable portrait of her child. That must double the picture's value to you!"

And the beau père hemmed and hawed, and made the general inarticulate noises of an Englishman embarrassed, or wishful to make an impressive speech, and finally got out:

"Aw, yes, yes—of course! A nice and amateur talent has Mrs. De Vere."

"Nice amateur talent!" I was fit to fly at him, and only the brutal—yes, the brutal—grasp of my husband kept me from rushing into the room and proclaiming "Mrs. De Vere's" antecedents—her artistic career sketched in a few bold touches.

The world would have ended then and there. But how delightful to have seen, first, his looks of blank horror at the idea of a daughter-in-law who had been used to rough it, and to make her little money go a fabulously long way.

"This is the daughter of Prof. Macfarlane!" he introduces me proudly sometimes. I wonder if he thinks a poor scientific man like papa could send all his young ravens about first-class, or keep a maid and a governess with one in various continental cities where she chose, as an eccentric whim, to abide and study art? What would he have said to my gloves in those earlier days when I earned nothing, and most of my allowance, beyond board and lodging, went for paints, and four pairs of dark, carefully chosen gloves had to go through the year? What to my lodgings at the tailor's—a poor cobbler-tailor, in Dresden? What to my lunches of Wurst beer and black bread? What to the concerts, where, in smoke and a three-penny seat, I heard music as good as plenty which costs me ten shillings to a guinea in London? What to all the cheek-by-jowl encounters with the peasants in our cheap, rapturously happy sketching tours? Bah! the poor Irishman! As if he could guess anything about it! Why should I think twice of his "amateur talent" and other little pin-pricks when the stiff, starved man never had, in his whole life, one such happy day of honest work, utter freedom, and simplest, blissfullest pleasures as have been mine by scores? Be easy, Ronayne. Not for the Bohemian daughter-in-law shall apoplexy smite the sovereign of Castle Starched-stiff-O!—which sacrilegious parody shall be my only revenge.

And if I portray my baby in every week of her life, her father turns her to account no less. She is beginning to chatter like a wren, and Ronayne has a notebook devoted to her earliest attempts at speech—the sounds, as she is progressively able to make them—the easily-conquered ones, the impregnable rock-fortresses, the turns, substituted letters. Sometimes I get quite furious over this anatomical process. My darling says something with the dearest, sweetest, small voice:

"Oh, Ronayne!" I cry. "Did you hear? Three words together—'Pease, papa, tugar!'" And I smother her in ecstasy.

"Yes, love," says Ronayne. "And do you notice how she can manage s before a, and not before u? This morning I shook her, and nurse asked her, 'What does papa do?' 'S-ake a baby,' she answered—but she never says sugar. And there's the same——"

"Oh, you vivisecter," I broke in; "I'll have you to know, sir, that my baby's pretty lispings are not to be treated like the rudimental language of a philologist's offspring! Put up that abominable book this instant! Did a cruel father, my lammie, spear his own child with a wicked pin, and stick her up in a case?"

I am a happy woman, Susie. Too happy; I'm frightened at it. You, may be, don't see where this comes in. If you don't, never mind. My heart does run over nowadays for all sorts of reasons, and no-reasons.

Later on Ronayne told me, apropos of the Dialectical, that his objection was like the Frenchman's to the fox-hunt—"he'd been," if you please—went with Dr. Thunder and the Truth-Seeker just before our trip to Brighton. Then the subject under discussion was marriage, and Lady ——'s son read the paper—a long argument against monogamic marriage: In the light of experience and human reason it was monstrous to make the promises required at the altar; monogamic marriage fettered man, made his best capabilities impossible, made women hypocrites and slaves, made love commercial, was physiologically a cruelty and a mistake, and so on, and so on. "You don't love Lady ——'s son. You would love him less had you heard the things he found it possible to say before the fifty or sixty ladies who found it possible to listen to him, and to take some active part in the discussion that succeeded.

"They called loudly upon Dr. Thunder to speak; but he refused to rise, preferring, I suppose, to hear how well his disciples could acquit themselves; for he is the author of a work upon physiology which is nick-named the 'Social Science Bible'—a book I believe to be one of the most mischievous that has appeared within recent years—materialistic to the last degree, degrading man, disorganizing society.

"Over a glass of wine afterward, Mr. Feldwick—I beg your pardon, the Truth-Seeker—told me a pleasant little history of Lady ——'s son. He says the man had, as a child and youth, a thoroughly good nature, frank, placable, extraordinarily loving and generous, and that then he bade fair to achieve great things as a naturalist.

"But Lady ——, who had had a hard experience of matrimony, with a husband whose only merit was his early death, lost, when this son was sixteen, her only other child, a boy of twelve—not an imbecile, but a slow, feeble-minded, gentle, and very beautiful child to whom mother and brother were passionately devoted.

"Lady —— was nearly frantic at this loss: would see no one; retired for a year or so to a desolate Scotch place they have, and then suddenly went abroad. There she flew restlessly from Algeria to St. Petersburg and Norway for awhile, seen everywhere, but nowhere long; then followed several quieter years when she spent her time chiefly at Berlin, Geneva, and Paris, forming in these places a large circle of acquaintances among the most revolutionary spirits of Europe. By and by they, mother and son, came back to London, but so changed—she in thought and speech, he in all things—that their old friends and kindred scarce knew how, comfortably, to maintain any intercourse with them, and the son, at least, seemed to desire that all old ties should be snapped asunder. The mother was for ever declaiming vague, inconsequent tirades against all things that are; the son was cynical, rough, disagreeable to an insufferable extent, and in their drawing-rooms a quiet, borné old friend was sure to encounter a tremendous procession of the emancipated—the reddest of reds, unwashed agitators of all tongues and hues, aggressive free-thinkers, poets screaming mad indecencies and blasphemies to vindicate the office of art; women whose mission it was, by nude dancing, posing, acting, to educate humanity and lift it to that plane whereon to the pure all things are pure; men of science standing on dreary pedestals of comely things they have shattered—a procession, in short, no one of whose members the humdrum old acquaintance would care to face a second time.

"More discouraging than all was a story that began to be whispered among the people who had known the family most intimately in the earlier days—the story of a young girl, a distant connection of Lady ——'s husband, who had been left an orphan when only a child, almost friendless and quite penniless, and had been, thanks to Lady ——, most carefully trained abroad to fill the position of musical governess, the girl having extraordinary aptitude for music. Her studies over, she accompanied Lady —— during a year or two of her later wanderings on the continent, and returned with her to London, where she soon obtained several good teaching engagements, and sang with great success at concerts during one season. A very pretty, winning creature she was, Mr. Feldwick said: a dark, rich-tinted face, where every emotion mirrored itself, and a manner as joyous, impulsive, frank as a child's, joined to the caressing coquetry of a Frenchwoman. She spoke three or four languages as well as English; her dancing was a thing to see in this awkward island; and the child was altogether so fresh and sweet that no one wondered that Lady —— insisted that her protégée must not think of finding shelter save with her.

"But young —— was not less sensible than his mother to the girl's charm, and it presently became evident that he had the child's whole heart in return. And now began difficulties. For years Lady —— had declaimed against the bondage, the hideous wrongs and wretchednesses of marriage, and had never tired in depicting a glorious earth-life in the future when the free man and woman should love each other because they loved—but be held to no duty of loving, no responsibility—free as the air to come and go; and young ——, fed on such food, companioned as he had always been, was far more vehement than his mother upon the subject, and had sworn by all his gods that civilized marriage should never count him among its victims.

"He told the girl he loved her, but that she knew he could not marry her; that the fetters of marriage would kill love in him; and he would rather assume them for any woman in the world than herself. The girl would have married him at a word; on her part there was the utter surrender of an adoring affection; but what would it be to have Herbert without his love?

"And she had not been so intimately a member of that household without coming to share its opinions and sentiments, so she declared that Herbert should give her his love, make no sacrifice for her, sully the ethereal nature of their relation with no worldly care. They were to be that grand pair, the coming man and woman, prophesied by Lady —— and her philosophers. But, most astonishingly to the young people, here Lady —— failed them. The coming man and woman were all very fine—some ages hence—but to have them appear in conventional, censorious London, in the century we live in, and in the bosom of her family, was too much for her heroism—'Her hereditary instincts, cowardice, and training,' her son said. Herbert might marry Mimi at any moment; no one could ask of the Fates a more lovable wife and daughter-in-law; but it was nonsense—worse, it was wickedness—to dream of living after or up to their convictions in society as now constituted. Did Herbert think for a moment what would befall Mimi if she acted as her generosity and all their ideas would prompt her? It would be destruction—simple destruction to the child, and if her son could not sacrifice his principles to his love, then he was bound in honor and pity, living in this unhappy time, to sacrifice his heart. At any rate Mimi must be protected.

"But the young man could not deny his principles, and would not deny his selfishness; so Lady —— sent Mimi from her, obtaining her a good position in one of the best schools at Brighton, begging the lady principal, an old friend of her own, to keep upon the young girl a watch that might almost be called a guard. She remained there a few months, and then, one fine morning, was suddenly missing, and Lady —— received a note from her, posted in London, to say that it was useless to struggle longer; Herbert was bitterly unhappy and disappointed in her, reflected on her want of love and courage, and that she, Mimi, had chosen her part, and meant to see if one could not honestly live one's frank life in the London of to-day.

"Lady ——'s expostulations with her son were useless. 'I like what you have taught me, mother, and my conscience is in the matter.'

"And the same delicate conscience prevented him from supporting Mimi pecuniarily. He said, and she confirmed, that there should be no tie between them but love—that no other gift was fitting from one to the other. The woman of the future would have no need of protection, or to barter herself for care and a home; she would love out of a sphere of fine, grand independence, self-reliance—so would and should Mimi. Poor girl! her sphere of independence has been anything but grand and fine: a life in shifting, third-rate lodgings, under an alias, for, keeping her maiden style, it was simply impossible with her means to secure anywhere a reputable shelter, singing in concerts to support herself, and getting now and then a few lessons to give where people don't inquire too closely if they can secure good teaching cheaply, but bereft of all friends save a few pitying ones who now and then come to her relief, with no young brightness in her life, separated from her children, for she has three or four who are inexpensively taken care of at a farm in Cumberland, at a distance too great for her to see them save for a short autumn holiday; seeing Herbert sometimes only at very long intervals, for he goes abroad frequently for long absences, and leaves her with scanter ceremony than most men bestow upon a faithful dog—the mean-spirited good-for-naught!—shabbily clad, and living, like a rock hermit, on bread, fruit, and a salad, to make the money cover as far as may her own and her children's simplest needs. One can't wonder that Lady ——'s beautiful hair has turned from lustrous brown to snowy white in these few years, or that she should be tormented, as Mr. Feldwick says she is, with remorse lest she be to blame for the miserable warping of her son, and the catastrophe of Mimi's existence. She would be glad to come to Mimi's aid and that of her grandchildren, but that Mimi never permits unless she is in extremis, having, as she says, taken her lot with full warning from Lady ——; and Mimi has a helper who asks nothing more than to succor her from his own very moderate store—a fellow singer who met and loved her in the days when she was free, and in these, her days of ignominy, loves her honorably and hopelessly still, and devotes himself to any service in her and her children's behalf that she will permit; a poor, little, unknown, unsung Bayard, whose earthly happiness may be added to those sadder wrecks of lives ruined by the theorizings of Lady —— and her co-vagrants."

What do you think of all this, Susie? Would you exchange love in the bush for love among these "leaders of thought" in London? How, after these wicked, cynic, dreary histories and encounters, I nestle into my home and am so humbly grateful for its every little self-abnegation, every straitness of bond, no less than for the unspeakable riches it holds—that of being loved and beloving to one's heart's highest-heaped and deepest-down-pressed measure.

Love from Ronayne and self to my dearest woman. All kindest regards to the head of the house, and tender wishes that the new home in that topsy-turvy region of the world may be as happy and, some day, as noisy as that whence this journeys to you from


18 Stanfield Gardens, Curly bracket
March 12, 1876.

And do I never, in these days, see anything of my coöperative friends? Yes, something, but less since Miss Hedges went to Düsseldorf. Mrs. Stainton came to us a good deal early in the winter, but a month ago she was ordered off to Bournemouth for an obstinate cough, and the long letters I get from her are fuller of personal and spiritual matters than of references to her late co-associates. For she's done at last what we had all been looking for—gone over to Rome—and one hears from her now nothing but the Church: the Church's wisdom and peace, allusions to the saints, speculations upon states of prayer, enthusiasm for the spiritual exercises of St. Ignatius, and fervent wishes that all puzzled wayfarers may find what she has found—absolute conviction and rest—though she owns that the new religion is fuller, far, of struggles and crosses than the old. "What does our father, the Dean, say?" I asked lately. "That this 'is at least a respectable vagary,'" she wrote back, "'which one could hardly say for most of my dreams and experiments!' Fancy papa's feeling himself authorized to speak of the spiritual life of anything above a crayfish!—a dear old country gentleman who is too entirely well satisfied with this world and his lot in it ever to think of heaven except in an official way, and whose strongest vocations are matrimony, and the writing mildly learned antiquarian papers for the West of England Archæological Society.

"But you like stories. Here is papa's latest: One of his High Church confreres had been diligently expounding to a navvy the doctrine of the Trinity, and was boasting to papa of the intelligence of his neophyte. Papa, who holds very old-fashioned, inhumanitarian ideas as to the good or possibility of education for the masses, was scornfully incredulous as to the navvy's getting even an idea of the mystery upon which his friend had been instructing him. 'Will you go with me to see him, and convince yourself?' asked the clergyman. 'Delighted,' said papa, and off they set to find the navvy. After a little talk papa said to the man, 'This gentleman here tells me he has been talking to you about the Holy Trinity. Can you give me the names of the Three Persons?' 'Why, sir,' answered the navvy, 'there's God the Father and God the Son, but, to tell the truth, sir, I disremember the name of the other gentleman entirely!' Now I maintain that papa's in the wrong about the navvy, and that the ritualist clergyman had no reason to be so utterly disconcerted, as papa declares he was, at this naïve answer. Am I wicked, I wonder, to be repeating these stories? But you know I don't mean the least irreverence, and I can't help seeing they're droll! Somebody has said nobody is so irreverent as religious people, but I always reckoned that a sour-tempered saying, judging after the sense and not after the spirit. We have some distant Quaker connections where I visit sometimes, and in that household if one mentions our Lord in familiar conversation, as if He had a connection with the humble little events of the daily life, there is always a shocked hush, as if possibly it might not be unsacrilegious to speak of our Creator save on meeting days, and with formal removal of all lay business and speech. I am sure they never heard of St. Francis of Assisi preaching to the birds. What would they have said to it?

"You hope that Mr. Feldwick's experience will not be mine, and intimate that if the Church fails me, nothing remains for me but the unbelief of our friends in the coöperative house. Yes, I've long felt that between Rome and rationalism there's no logical ground on which to rest. But I have no fears.

"Mr. Feldwick told me once that having, while a Catholic, read somewhere that St. Philip of Neri was so distressed at ecstasies that befell him in public that he tried the reading, before saying mass, of books on other than spiritual subjects, to divert the usual current of his thoughts and love, he, Mr. Feldwick, conceived this to be an authorization for him to read romances, speculative books, what not, by way of preparing himself to receive Holy Communion—after which history I never wondered that he had wandered out of the Father's House after the husks of spiritism. But it is very difficult to conceive him responsible. If reading qualified for heaven, how high up would he not be! But he seems rather born to accumulate all manner of heterogeneous information, and to echo the last 'Times' leader, the last clever paper in the 'Contemporary' or 'Fortnightly,' than to live a man's life of independent impression, expression, and will. I always hope that invincible ignorance and invincible prejudice may cover so much!"

Anna Hedges and the porcelain widow being gone from London, I should see little of the remaining confederates were it not for "little Malaise." His mother, I am sure, has given me up as a possible disciple. I have never been able to get beyond one suffrage meeting; I couldn't somehow sign my name to a petition that women be eligible pupils for the study of law, and I horrified her greatly by enthusiastic support of a proposition that garroters, wife-beaters, and committers of ruffianly assaults upon women and children be publicly punished with the cat. "So inhumane!" she said. "Such an education of the brutal instincts in the spectators! Surely I did not think what such a sight would be for the young, how much more it would inculcate in them revenge than the gentler virtues. And society was responsible for these criminals. They were what her neglect and their conditions had made them. They should not be punished for what was a misfortune rather than a fault. Our business was to train, develop these people instead of behaving to them as they did to their unfortunate victims." I admitted a trembling hope that something might be done for the humanizing of the next generation of our lowest-down people, but persisted that fear and shame seemed to me the likeliest means to stop the sickening record of cowardly savagery that week after week comes to us from all over England—the crimes of adults past all restraints save forcible ones. One week I kept a list, gathered from two provincial papers and the "Telegraph." Besides a dozen or so of the ordinary cases where a man beats and kicks his wife, and policemen and no onlookers interfere because she's the man's wife, one costermonger had flung his wife under a loaded van; one navvy had gouged out one of his wife's eyes, and threatened, in the police court, "to do for her yet"; another had pounded his wife to a horrible jelly with a flat-iron; another held his by force upon a red-hot stove; and the last on the list, a collier, nearly tore his wife in pieces, with the help of a bull-dog, "because she aggerewated him by giving him a leg of veal for his dinner when he'd made up his mind to a pair o' boiled fowls!"

But Ronayne says maliciously that Mrs. Malise has resigned me to obscurity and the fossil period; not because it was hopeless—the winning me—but because, after all, it didn't seem worth while. True I had broken from the ranks, set up in business for myself, and earned my bread for a while—but then how dreadfully ignorant I am. It was bad enough when I didn't know who Margaret Fuller was, and had never read Mill on "Liberty"; but the day I owned to a pocket dictionary, and my unaided helplessness as to double consonants and such vicious words as separate, niece, ascension, and so on, finished the business.

And no wonder. What do you suppose my Mabel will say, grown tall and wise like her father, to a mother who knows more about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table than about the real kings and bygone personages of her own or any other country—a mother puzzled always as to whether it was Alfred the Great or Sir Humphrey Davy who burnt the cakes; a mother loving Glastonbury better than almost any spot of English ground, and believing devoutly that there Joseph of Arimathea planted his staff that became the winter thorn, blossoming at Christmas, "mindful of our Lord"; that there in the church-yard of the first hurdle-built church he and King Arthur and Queen Guinevere all mouldered away to dust; a mother who knew no more than sufficed to wield crayon and brush indifferently, and to love what she loves with her whole heart?

And I'm writing her life, her little life, with all its tiny unfoldings—a story of her being and doings, illustrated profusely with sketches and photographs—writing it for the Mabel of by and by. Will she forget the tenderness that's in every line and stroke when she comes upon such a sinful juxtaposition as this which Ronayne laughed at the other day. "Flanel peticoat?" Yes, "flanel peticoat"; it does look rather queer, but that's only because we're used to the wicked lavishness of the common fashion—and double consonants are only so much crinoline. When I worry sometimes as to what baby'll think of her mother being such a goose, Ronayne says the spelling and all the other stupidities are only piquant, and that he asks of heaven nothing better than a daughter only half as much to his taste as his wife is, which would be very dear of him to think and tell me if he had not rather upset it by admitting that if he had a son who persisted in spelling warm after his mother's eccentric fashion—wharm—he, my husband, would certainly "wharm" that boy—my boy.

And I'd sooner Mabel should laugh even unkindly at her mother's ignorance than ever see her turning over the leaves of a set of books wherein her mother's hand had carefully cut away every allusion to Christian belief, every repetition of God's name—such a set as I saw Mrs. Malise scissoring when I called upon her last.

"These are books that are accumulating for Mill," she explained—"presents from one and another—and I'm cutting out every word that can suggest to him the idea of any life or any world than the only one of which he can gain a certainty through his senses; childish impressions are so tenacious, and I mean him to be utterly free from influence or superstition; open to believe or disbelieve in immortality when his faculties are trained, and he can judge evidence fairly. The Christian scheme seems to me to rest on a mass of unworthy fables; but he is not to be taught in the sense of my conclusion. I shall guard him from my atheism as carefully as from accepted forms of faith. Surely no more can be exacted from a mother than to rear a child unbiassed, and let him make his own experiences, shape his own belief. I believe there are text-books in which no reference to any possible personal Creator of the universe is to be found, and we hope such are in use at the Genevan kindergarten, and Mr. Malise means, in some of his leisure time, to write a series of stories for children in which there shall be no hint of the supernatural; stories that shall deal only with this living, breathing world we know; with no pretty fiction concerning a life and personages generations of men have invented details for"—and I—

I seemed to move among a world of ghosts,

And feel myself the shadow of a dream.

But Geneva and these dreary story-books are two or three years off, let us hope. Meanwhile baby and I are grown very fond of the patient, lonely little man, and I have him here as often as Johanna is pleased to bring him. Great comfort, I see and hear, he has in Mabel's large, sunny day nursery, gay with birds and pictures, well stocked with playthings, and possessing an extraordinary wooden construction which our little guest beholds with the eye of faith, naming it rapturously gee-gee, and worshipping it as the king of beasts. When we are alone at dinner I have the mites down for a few minutes at dessert, and it is really pathetic to watch little Malaise's shy delight at getting a little fruit and an innocent sweet or two.

The Laburnums, Curly bracket
July 16, 1876.

Changed quarters, you see, my Susie. It was so cold all June I thought we should be able to hold out until the end of the session at No. 18; but July came in flaming; so more for Mabel's sake than our own we've taken a pretty villa here at pretty Henley, for six weeks, and then we're off for Biarritz, where we mean to settle ourselves comfortably, and thence explore, at our leisure, all the lovely yet almost unknown near-by country. The grandpapa paternal has written begging that we'll leave Mabel, whom he calls "Tramp No. 3, and too small for the work," at Castle Starched-stiff-O; but Tramps 1 and 2 think they couldn't possibly fare on comfortably without that small golden head bobbing along beside them, up the hills and down the dales. Nurse is even more gypsyish than her master and mistress, and Mabel has spent the greater part of all her waking hours since she was two months old out of doors; so I think we shall always have in her the hardiest of small comrades.

Miss Hedges goes with us, and we mean, she and I, to bring back between us the entire Basque country in our portfolios.

"I'm thankful we're going to a region of picturesque men," says Ronayne, "for I think my lot in life likely to be a little less afflictive than it was last year. I don't much mind leading contrary minded horses up and down by the hour, coaxing suspicious or aggressive goats; I might even put another bull as savage as that fellow at Twickenham through his paces; but as to posing myself, in any possible fashion, even as a snoring shepherd, please to consider, ladies, that it's not down in our summer programme.

"Talk of the miseries of a man with a literary wife! What are they, I should like to be told, beside those of the unlucky mortal who's married a 'fair artist,' and can never so much as yawn in peace again, without being perpetuated in the act?"

"I had an eye to business when I married you, sir!" I retort. "You see you're a fine, tall, well-made animal, and since I own you, why should I go pay away my money for some other model who wouldn't be half so good-looking, and whom I couldn't frighten so well into minding me? Not pose indeed! Perhaps you would even choose to be bow-legged if so you could escape doing your duty? And I think you're maliciously trying to get stout. In our rides lately, I notice you puff a good deal if we have a bit of a race, and you're really getting a quite perceptible little bulge!"

And Ronayne, who knows very well that he's a capital figure, and whom I accuse of keeping the lowest button of his coat fastened in order to display his slender waist, gives an alarmed glance down at himself, and I see, to my great amusement, that no Bass is uncorked at luncheon, my lord consenting himself with a glass of sherry instead—a needless self-denial, I hasten to add, for he's really no more bulging than a greyhound! But he deserves the little scare for his attempt at rebellion. Fancy my husband having any will of his own about stopping in any attitude I choose him to take, and for as long as I choose! I knew such a queer artist in London, a rather coarse, wholly uneducated woman, but with a streak of real genius. She married the commonest, stupidest man, a pink-and-white young idiot of a tailor, grown now to be the "heavy father"—red, fat, lazy, letting his wife earn all the money. Somebody scolded about him to the poor, over-worked wife. "Yes, I know I have to keep the pot boiling," she answered, "but then Dave saves a model, he's the kindest father to the children, and he does all the sewing!" He doesn't object to pose, not he! And how proud he is of his wife! I found him alone in her studio one day. I looked over some engravings after Titian while waiting, and the man said, "Them engravings o' Titian's, now, ma'am, they're out o' drawing! But here's a picture o' my wife's that's more the real thing," putting on the easel, with affectionate pride, a painting in which two or three of their children were grouped—a trashy, tawdry, grinning thing, and yet with unmistakable touches of power. And this is a tale my husband has reason to know by heart, I'm sure! Not pose! I wish he had Miss Hedges for a wife! Anything like that girl's utter devotion to her work I've never seen in a woman. Rain or shine, cold or heat, are all one to her; she never has spiritually gray days when the grasshopper's a burden, and Capua itself wouldn't have unnerved her arm and purpose. Work! work! And everything turned to account.

Last summer when she was with us I fainted at some horrible tale or other. She came into the room where I lay stretched flat upon the floor, too miserable to speak, but conscious again. I must do her the justice to say she had heard there was no serious cause for my condition; but her first exclamation was,

"Oh, Lilian, what a color you are! Blue-white, ghastly, your face all drawn, pinched—magnificent! Let me see your hands and nails. Ah, capital! Capital! Poor little Lilian! But if you must faint, what a chance for me! I couldn't think how I was to get the right tint for my dying soldier. I never saw any one dead or wounded, and I am much too stolid ever to faint myself. Crossing the channel I took my hand-mirror and studied my face when I was desperately sick—but it was all green and pathos—no good! But your color's the very thing—only you get pink so fast! Oh, Lilian, if ever you faint again, have me called the very instant you feel yourself going off!"

This may be called devotion to one's work? But grand work she's going to do. She's full of genius, and has only to get over the niminy-piminy-izing of the South Kensington School, and work abroad a few years, to have a far more justly grounded fame than Rosa Bonheur's.

Already a few first great drops of her shower are falling. She's a picture in the Academy, her first, and on the line—a picture to which the hanging committee themselves took off their hats, and gave a cheer for the artist; and a regular ovation she had on the private view day—nobility and clergy, fellow artists and journalists, army and navy—such a day as she says can never come again for her, let the future have what success in store for her it may.

She has sold the picture for a thousand guineas, and her sketch in the Black and White Exhibition has appeared in one of the illustrated papers, the same paper offering her carte-blanche for illustrations. How I feel like swinging her in triumph before the faces of Mesdames Malise and her friends!—a simple, frank, good girl, who never in her life thought of crying out about a career, and a smoothing of her way, or declared her right to devote herself to art, and to such an unwomanly branch of it as the drawing of horses and soldiers, but set herself obscurely at work, and toiled as faithfully as if she hadn't a spark of genius in her—to win what she has already done, and yet will do!

Mrs. Malise. That reminds me of that household. Our latest news from it, through Mr. Feldwick, who belongs to a "Sordello" club, for which my liege had a hankering, only they made him an Irish member, and so he'd no time (you wonder what a Sordello club may be? A society of ladies and gentlemen, dear, who read Sordello with a key, and try to find out whatever it's all about!), and Mr. Feldwick is good enough to keep him au courant of their discoveries and interpretations, and gossips with me about the Domestic Club. About this Mr. Feldwick is concerned. In losing Mrs. Stainton and Miss Hedges, the house lost much in his eyes, and there have been other changes, and all so much for the worse, that Mr. F. is seriously debating whether the place can long continue sufficiently respectable to be honored by the presence of himself and Smut—his pug dog. The people whom Lady —— brings about the place get queerer and queerer, and the ideas and schemes they broach are——"I'm a man of the world, and something of a philosopher myself," says Mr. F., "and I know human nature has plenty of shady corners; but, aw, really, aw, you know there must be some limit!"—which I was glad to hear from the Truth-Seeker. Young ——'s gone off to see if the Fiji islanders or some other outlandish creatures haven't more morality and tenderness and general virtues than the men and women of civilization; and when I tell you he sailed just after the death by diphtheria of three of poor Mimi's children, leaving her to bear that, as all things, unhelped by him, you'll wish with me, that some coppery, tough old savage'll eat him for his investigating pains! If anything can cure her infatuation, one would think this last stroke of barbarity might, and perhaps then there would be some hope for the singer lover, who has taken care of her, shared her grief—borne all the burden that the miserable new Rousseau refused.

The food-reforming trio are gone from the associate household. "The Food-Regenerator" has not the circulation it deserves. Its editor threw up a secretaryship that was profitable, but cramping to a soaring, unmercenary spirit. So the emoluments of the journal were insufficient for the club life, and they've retired to a poor lodging where that weary white cat, I suppose, is trying to keep the heroic little man and all her hungry progeny—ravens, I of course meant to say, only I'd called their mother a cat!—on broad beans and porridge and next to nothing a week, and do the work of an office-boy besides!

The third member of the trio, the young girl who told me she was to be a "healer," has had a sad fate. She had, it seems, some liabilities to lung disease which she determined to starve out; so the great rations of bran bread and prunes, which distressed Ronayne at the dinner-party, dwindled, months ago, to two or three ounces of bread daily, and a little fruit—the quantity becoming so small that her mother piteously declared they could not understand how she lived at all.

Reducing her food day by day, she went, in June, to Aberystwith for some weeks. While there, she fell asleep while reading one afternoon in a cave on the coast, and when she wakened it was night, the rain falling heavily, the tide risen so that all egress from the cave was cut off, and she a prisoner. At that season of the year there was no danger beyond that of fright and exposure to damp and chill so many hours; for the water only rises high in the cave during great storms; but even if she had been told this, who remembers or reasons clearly in such sudden, awful moments? But she came out so soon as morning and the ebbing water released her, walked the two or three miles back to her lodging, told her story with apparent calmness, and before night was a raving maniac, so wild and uncontrollable that her family were obliged to place her in a lunatic asylum, and as yet there is nothing favorable to report in her case.

Mrs. Stainton still at Bournemouth, but writing often either to Miss Hedges or to me. In one of her last notes she says, "Do you remember that little story I told you of Ste. Colette, the Saint who was walled up? I think of her so often, so anxiously; I think, I almost think, it will come to that—walling up, I'm afraid not the sanctity?—with me. What a harbor it looks—the cloistered life! And there never seemed to be any place for me in the world. Everything has turned to ashes in my grasp and on my lips. Perhaps it was that the religious life was always calling me. I repeat Père La Cordaire's saying over and over to myself, 'When we Frenchmen become religious, we do it meaning to be religious up to the neck.'

"I should not enter an active order. I have not the strength. But the contemplative ones draw me, draw me. Pray for me!"

Mrs. Stainton, Sybarite of Sybarites, a Carmelite, a poor Clare sleeping on a plank, washing herself with cold water and sand, living on begged bits, bad herrings, and limp cabbages! Shall we indeed see that?

20th July.

Susie! Susie! what an ending I must give my letter. Little Malaise is dead!

"Have you read the papers to-day, Lil?" Ronayne asked me as he was dressing for dinner two days ago.

"No, they're so stupid these days; nothing but Wimbledon and padding. Why? Is there anything to-day?"

"No, no; nothing," he answered, and though I thought his manner a little odd, I had forgotten all about it later when Archdeacon Ryder, who was dining with us, suddenly asked:

"Did you notice the account of that painful accident in Westbourne Grove in this morning's 'News'? Those terrible perambulators! I wish they could be abolished. Maid servants' arms were stouter in my day. This stupid German nurse seems to have got dazed, or was staring everywhere but where her business lay. An only child, the paper stated, an editor's, but I don't remember the name. It was not one familiar to me. Did you know it?"

"I've heard it," Ronayne answered, and would have changed the subject, but I broke in:

"Oh, Ronayne, a German nurse! Can anything have happened to Mrs. Malise's baby? You needn't be silent. Oh, I'm sure it's he!"

And then it all came out—the fact that the child was killed while his nurse was trying to wheel him across the road in Westbourne Grove—but Ronayne wouldn't have any details told me.

The poor little man! My own baby's age, and such a sweet-tempered, patient little fellow! What a life! To come where he had but grudging welcome, to have no real mother, no warm little places of fond sunshine, and to go away from all this world's possibilities in that sudden cruelty! It wrung my heart, the hardness of it all. But could I really grieve, remembering how chill was the brief life, and remembering, above all, the scheme that was to make of him, so helpless and undefended, a spiritual outcast and foundling?

And since I saw his mother—I went yesterday, having first sacked Henley of white flowers, heliotrope, and fragrant leaves—and found her unshaken in composure, untouched by any sense of duty missed—since then I think I have been only glad that the little soul has taken flight.

Very white and peaceful he looked lying in his crib, and I heaped my flowers all about him.

"How much you loved him!" Mrs. Malise said, as she stood beside me looking at him.

"And how pretty and happy he looks! I wonder if he is happy—if he is anywhere?"

"Well, some time we shall know! And perhaps it is better for him as it is. Often and often his father and I were perplexed as to what we ought to do for him by and by. At any rate he's past our marring! And I hope we shall have no more children to deal with—be responsible for."

Ronayne says I ought to add what I have only told him under my breath, that it completes my sketch of this "advanced" woman, a mother despite herself.

On leaving I said to her something as to where the boy would be buried.

"It is not quite settled," she replied, "but Kensal Green, I suppose. We are both strong advocates of cremation, and wish so much that it were a present possibility. If it were, and even a difficult one, we should certainly bear our practical testimony to the more sanitary way of disposing of our dead. But——"

"Heaven help you!" I interrupted; "and farewell!"

We dare not tell this to nurse, who, though she was the little fellow's fast friend, cried out at the first news of his death:

"Oh, I am glad he is gone, the poor dear! But he was too good for them, and I'm glad he didn't live to have his heart quite broken."

And so ends my going forth after new lights. I'm the richer for my foray in two friends, and the certainty that, Bohemian as I am, I am but a fossil too, and that nature fitted me exactly to my place in making me only the contentedly obscure wife of an Irish member and your

Loving Lil.

S. F. Hopkins.


By Justin McCarthy.



"So you are really going to be an heiress, my dearest?" Mary Blanchet said to Minola, when our heroine was settled at home again. "I knew you ought to be, and would be if right were done; but right so often isn't done. My brother will be so glad to hear it! but not as other people might be glad, you know." For Mary began to be afraid that by a hasty word she might be filling the heart of her friend with suspicion of her brother.

"I don't know, Mary. Mr. Money, and others, I suppose, say so. I wish it were not true; I am all right as things are, and I hate the idea of gaining by this poor woman's death. I think I should not feel so if we had been friends, and if I could think that it was like a kindly gift from her, and that she wished me to have it. But it is all so different. And then what do I want of it?"

"One can do so much good with money," said little Mary sighing. She was thinking of her brother.

"Yes, that is true," Minola said, thinking of Mary herself and of what she might perhaps do for her. "But don't tell any one about this, Mary—not even your brother—if you can well help it," Minola added, knowing what little chance there would be of Mary's keeping such a thing secret from her brother. "It is all uncertain and only talk as yet, you know."

"These things are never secret, dearest," Mary said with a wise shake of the head. "Men always get to know of them. I think the birds of the air carry the news abroad that a woman has money, or that she has not," and Mary sighed again gently.

"Do you see much of an alteration in the ways of men toward me already, Mary? Do they hang around me in adoring groups? Do they lean enraptured over me as I sweep the chords of the harp? Do they who whispered that I sang like the crow before, now loudly declare that my voice puts the nightingale out of conceit with his own minstrelsy?"

"Now you are only talking nonsense, dear; for we know so few men—and then you don't play the harp, and you never sing in company. But, if you ask me, I think I do see some difference."

"Already, Mary?"

"Well, yes, I think so; in one instance at least. Not surely that you were not likely to have attentions enough paid to you in any case, if you cared about them or encouraged them, and that, even if you hadn't a sixpence in the world—but still——"

"But still it does enhance one's charms, you think? Come, Mary, tell me the name of this mercenary admirer. Depend upon it, all his arts shall fail."

"You are only laughing at me still, dearest, but there is something in it I can tell you for all that. It is not my idea alone, I can assure you. What do you think of a Duke's brother for an admirer, Minola?"

Little Mary Blanchet was a crafty little personage. She thought she could not too soon begin working for her brother's cause by trying to throw discredit on the motives of all other possible wooers. She had observed when going now and then to the house of the Moneys, during the last few days, that the returned cadet of the one great ducal house whereof she had any knowledge was there every day, and that he was very attentive to Minola. The same remark had been made by Mr. Money, and had called forth an indignant objection from Lucy, who protested against the thought of her Nola having a broken-down outcast like that for a lover. But Mary, who was almost terrified at the idea of sitting down in the same room with any member of the great family who owned the mausoleum at Keeton, was not certain how far the name of a family like that might not go with any girl, even Minola, and believed it not an unwise precaution to begin as soon as possible throwing discredit on his purposes.

Minola tried not to seem vexed. She had liked to talk to Mr. St. Paul when he came, as he did every day of her stay in Victoria street. She had liked it because it gave her no trouble in thinking, and it saved her from having to talk to others with whom she might have felt more embarrassed, and because it turned away attention from what might perhaps have otherwise been observed—as she feared at least—by too keen eyes. If Mary must suspect anything, it was a relief to find that she only suspected this, and Minola tried to make merry with her about her absurdity. But in her secret heart she sickened at such talk, and such thoughts, and felt as if the very shadow of the fortune which was expected for her, falling already on her path, was making it one of new pain and of still less accustomed shame.

"Poverty parts good company, used to be said," Minola thought; "a little money seems much more likely to part good company in my case."

Yet that there are advantages in a command of money was soon made very clear to Minola. When she returned from a walk a day or two after she found a specimen copy of Herbert Blanchet's poems awaiting her, with a note from Victor Heron. The letter was somewhat awkward and rueful. Mr. Heron explained that, by her express instructions, he had allowed Blanchet to have it all his own way in the arrangement of the style of his appearance in paper and print; and that the cost had become something far greater than he had anticipated.

"You should never have been troubled about this," Victor went on to say, "but that you made me promise that you alone should pay for this thing; I wish I hadn't made any such promise, or consented that Blanchet should have his way in the business. To think of a grown man, who has seen the world, leaving a matter of money and business in the hands of a girl and a poet! Blanchet has been going it."

Minola in all her trouble found room for wonder, delight, and something like alarm in looking at the superb edition in which the poems of Mr. Blanchet were to go before a world scarcely prepared for so much artistic gorgeousness. All that vellum paper, rare typography, costly and fantastic binding, and lavish illustration could do for poetry, had been done without stint on behalf of Herbert Blanchet. The leaves were as thick as parchment and as soft as satin. Only a very few lines of verse appeared on each broad luxurious page. Every initial letter of a sentence was a fantastic design. The whole school of Blanchet's artistic friends had rushed into combination to enrich the pages, the margins, and the covers, with fanciful illustration. If they only had been great, or even successful and popular artists, the book might have been worth its weight in gold. Unfortunately Mr. Blanchet's artistic friends were not yet great or famous. The outer world—the world which, in the opinion of the school, was wholly composed of dullards and Philistines—knew as yet nothing about these artists, and neither blamed them nor praised them. The volume was as large in its superficial extent as an ordinary atlas, and some of the poems which occupied a whole page were not more than four lines in length. The whole thing seemed truly, in the words of a poet whom Mr. Blanchet especially despised, "all a wonder and a wild desire."

Thinking of herself as the patroness and in some sort the parent of such a volume, Minola felt some such mixture of pride and timidity as a modest girl might own who has suddenly been made a princess, and is not quite certain whether she will be able to support her position with becoming nerve and dignity.

There came a little letter too from the poet himself. It ran in this fashion:

"Dear Patroness and Queen: The poet has not dared to send in unfitting casket the offering which your approval has made precious. The poems which are addressed to you must at least offer themselves in form not unworthy to be touched by your hand.

"In all devotion yours,

"Herbert Blanchet."

Nor did the volume want a poetical dedication. The second leaf contained the following:


Upon my darkness may there well be fall

Light of all darkness, darkness of all light;

Starfire of amber, dew of deathlike sheen;

Waters that burn, pale fires that sicken all,

And shadows all aglow with saffron light;

But comes my lady who is Glory's queen,

And all the bright is dark, and pallid dark the bright.

Minola read this dedication again and again, puzzled, amused, angry, hardly knowing whether to laugh or to cry. "Am I glory's queen?" she asked of her own soul. "And if I am, am I letting light or darkness in upon my poor poet? Am I depriving him of the amber, the dew, and the saffron light, or not? Is it praise or blame, this dedication? I suppose it must be praise, but I don't think anybody could tell from its words. Oh, my dear little Mary Blanchet, why must you have a brother—and why must that brother be a poet?"

There was one consolation—the dedication did not set forth her name, and nobody could know who the lady patroness of the poet might be. Minola felt inclined to be offended that she should be in any way brought into this folly, but she was not certain whether remonstrance or complaint might not be more ridiculous than utter silence. After all nobody knew anything about her or cared, she said. If she were to complain in any way, it would only grieve poor Mary, whom the thought that her brother could have offended her friend and leader would drive well-nigh distracted. "What does it matter if I am made a little ridiculous in my own eyes?" she asked herself. "It is only in my own eyes, I suppose. Mary will look on it all as delightful; her brother of course means it for the best, and thinks it superb poetry; and there is no one else likely to care either way. It is not much to be a little more ridiculous in my own eyes than I have already made myself."

Perhaps—perhaps—let it be said with hesitation and much caution—there was something not wholly unwelcome to our heroine in the idea that she could be glory's queen and all the rest of it, to any human creature, not to say any poet, just now. She felt humbled and deeply depressed. In her own eyes she was lowered by what she knew of her own heart. Her pride had received a terrible wound, almost a death wound. The little world she had made so proudly for herself had all crumbled into dust. It is not wonderful if at such a time there should be, in spite of her sense of the ridiculous and her senses generally, a certain soothing influence in the fact that there still was some one in whose eyes she appeared a person of account and even of dignity. At all events, let it be frankly said, that when the first shock and stir of the ridiculous were passed, Minola was not inclined to think more harshly than before of the poor poet who called her his patroness and his queen. As to the expense of the publication, she was a little startled at first, but that sensation very quickly passed away. She was not enough of a woman of business yet to care about the cost of anything so long as she had the money to pay. It would run her hard in her first year of independent life, to pay this much, but then she could pay it and live somehow, and it would only be a case for strict economy in the future for some time. Besides, it seemed that whether she would or not, she was likely to have much more money than she wanted or could use for any purposes of her own. Then she was further stimulated to carelessness by Mr. Heron's letter.

"If he thinks I care about money, or the cost of serving a friend, he is mistaken," she said. "His caution and his protestations are thrown away on me."

For she was much inclined to be unjust and harsh in her mind toward Heron now. He had committed, all unconsciously, a terrible offence. He had, without knowing it, made her fall in love with him. So she made the best of the whole affair, cost, dedication, glory's queen, and all; and when Mary Blanchet came to look at the precious volume, and to go into raptures over it, Minola did her very best to seem contented, and not even to suggest a criticism, or to ask what this or that meant. She reminded herself that the late Lord Lytton had written contemptuously of the "fools on fools" who "still ask what Hamlet means."

"This may be as far off from me as Hamlet from other people," she told herself. "Why confess myself a fool by asking what anything means? And in any case Mary Blanchet would not know any better than I."

By this resolve she made one woman happy.

But it was not only a woman on whom she had conferred happiness. Herbert Blanchet was as happy as even his sister could have wished him to be. The head of the poet swam in delight. He had never before been so proud and blest. He hung over his volume for hours; he could hardly get away from it. When he left it for a moment and tried to escape from its fascinations, he found himself drawn back again into its presence. He touched fondly its soft, satiny leaves as though they were the cheek of beauty; he pressed his own cheek against them; he committed all the follies which we understand and admire in the immemorial raptures of the young lover or the father of the first born.

"They must see this," he cried aloud. "They can't overlook a volume like this." "They" being, of course, that public whose opinion he had always despised—those critics whose praise he had always declared to be the worst censure to a man of true genius.

To do our poet justice, it must be owned that there was in his breast for the first time a deep, strong feeling of gratitude. That emotion came there with a strange, overwhelming force, like that of intoxication to a man always rigidly sober before. If Minola had had him crowned a king, she could hardly have done any greater thing for him. Few men on earth can ever have had their dearest ambition so sweetly gratified as it was the lot of Herbert, the poet, to find his ambition gratified now. To have his poems so set before the world would have been a glory and a rapture, no matter though the patron's hand had been that of a withered old man or some fat frump of a dowager; but to be thus lifted to his longed-for pedestal by the hand of a young and beautiful woman was something which he had never dreamed of asleep, and seldom allowed even into the dreams of his wild, vain waking hours. The emotion called up by experience was as new as the experience itself. Mr. Blanchet felt profoundly grateful. In that moment of excitement he would probably, if need were, have laid down his life for Minola.

If Minola knew what strange effect had been wrought in the breast of her poet, she would assuredly have thought her money well laid out, even although she had wanted it far more than she did. "To making a man happy, ten pounds," is the peculiar entry on which a famous essay in the "Spectator" was founded. To make a man grateful for the first time is surely a nobler piece of work than to make him merely happy, and it ought fairly to cost a good deal more. Minola had made a man for the first time both grateful and happy. The work was a little expensive in this case, but what miser will say that the money was thrown away?

It is not likely, however, that Minola would have been quite so much delighted if she could have known all the feelings that her generous, improvident patronage had awakened in the poet's breast. For Mr. Blanchet knew women well, he thought; and he did not believe that mere kindness alone could have impelled Minola to such an act of bounty. Nor, making every needful allowance for the friendship between Miss Grey and his sister, did he find in that a sufficing explanation of Minola's liberality. He set himself to think over the whole matter coolly and impartially, and he could come to no other conclusion than that Miss Grey admired him. He was a handsome fellow, as he knew very well, and tall, and romantic in appearance: what could be more natural than that a poetic young woman should fall in love with him? He felt sure that he had fallen in deepest love with her, but it is doubtful whether he was yet in a condition to analyze his own excited feelings very clearly. It is certain that he was madly in love with his poems, with their gorgeous first edition, with the pride and the prospect of the whole affair; and of course likewise in love with the patroness to whom he was indebted for so much of a strange delight. But how much was love of himself and how much of Minola, he did not take time to consider.

There was an artistic and literary association to which Blanchet belonged, and amid which he passed most of his nights. It was not exactly a club, for it had neither definite rules nor even a distinct habitation. It was a little sect rather than a club. It was an association of men who believed each in himself, and all, at least for the present, in each other. Their essential condition of existence was scorn of the world's ways, politics, and theories of art. They held that man himself was a poor creature, unworthy of the artist's serious consideration. All that related to the well-being of that wretched animal in the way of political government they looked down upon with mere contempt. The science which professed to concern itself about his health, the social philosophy which would take any account of his moral improvement, were alike ridiculous in the eyes of this æsthetic school. If, however, any uninitiated person should imagine that in setting up art as the only serious business of life they were likely to accept any common definition of art, he would find himself as open to their scorn as if he had tried to improve a bad law or subscribed to the funds of some religious organization. Art with them was their own art. The enlightened parson, Thwackum, in "Tom Jones," observes that "When I mention religion I mean of course the Christian religion, and when I speak of the Protestant religion I mean the religion of the Church of England." It was in this spirit that the confraternity to which Mr. Blanchet belonged defined art. They only meant their own particular sect; out of that there was no salvation. Art, it is said, hath no enemy but the ignorant. These artists, however, were the enemies of all art but their own.

At the present these genial brothers regularly met of nights in the lodgings of one of them, who happened to have a large studio in the west central region of London, where so much of this unfashionable story happens to be cast. Victor Heron had many times been told of the genius that burned by night in that favored haunt, and had expressed a modest wish to be allowed to pass for an hour within its light. Mr. Blanchet was glad of the opportunity of introducing such a friend; for it somehow seemed as if the consideration of any member of the fraternity was enhanced among his brothers not a little by the fact that he could introduce into their midst some distinguished personage from the despised outer world. With them Victor Heron might very well pass for a distinguished public man, as in fact he already did, with no design of his own that way, in the eyes of Herbert Blanchet. To Victor the school was all composed of gifted and rising men, whom it was a pride to know or even to meet. To the school, on the other hand, Victor was a remarkable public man, a tremendous "swell," who had done some wondrous things in some far-off countries, and who, for all they knew at the time, might be regarded by the world as the prospective Prime Minister of England.

There was a peculiar principle of reciprocity tacitly recognized among these brothers in art. No one of them would admit that there was anything which his brother knew and he did not know. If one of them read an author for the first time, and came to meet his fellows proud of his freshly-acquired knowledge, he found no man among them who would admit that he had not from his birth upward been equally familiar with the author in question. It would be easy, surely, some one may say, to expose such pretension. Just so; of course it would. But when one brother had shown tonight that his friends had never read Schopenhauer, and in point of fact could not read him if they tried, who should guarantee that same brother against a similar exposure of his own harmless little false pretences to-morrow when he professed to know all about Euripides? It was not found convenient in this little circle to examine too closely into the pretensions of each other. Live and let live was the motto of the school so far as their esoteric professors were concerned.

There was indeed a legend that some malign person acquainted with the peculiarities of the school had once compelled them to invent a patron poet. It was done in this fashion: the malign person talked confidently and fluently to one of the order concerning a French poet, whom he described as a gifted apostle of a kindred school, and whom he was pleased to name De Patroque. The youth thus talked to was not to be outdone, or even to be instructed. He gave out that he had long had his eyes fixed reverently on the genius of the gifted De Patroque. He talked largely, not to say bouncingly, of the great De Patroque among his friends, who, not to be outdone in their turn, talked to him and to others of the new apostle. The fame of De Patroque grew and grew, until at last ill-natured persons affirmed that several essays on his genius, and fraternal hymns of honor, were composed for him by the admirers of his mythical career.

To this select circle Mr. Blanchet had for some time proposed to introduce his friend Victor Heron. On the very day when the first copies of the gorgeous poems were submitted to privileged eyes, Mr. Blanchet called on his friend. He found the friend a little put out by the unexpected lavishness of the manner in which the poetic enterprise had been carried on.

"This will be an awfully expensive business, I'm afraid," Heron said, in an embarrassed tone, for he felt that it was a sort of profanation to talk of money matters with a young poet. "I wish you had let me do this thing myself, Blanchet. I'd not have minded so far as I'm concerned. But I don't know about her, you see—she may not have much money. Then young ladies are generally so enthusiastic; she may not have thought of what the thing would cost."

"You need not think about that," Herbert said loftily. "Miss Grey will be a rich woman one of these days——"

"But I don't see that that much alters the matter, although I am decidedly glad to hear it for her own sake, if it will make her any happier than she is now—which I take it is not by any means certain. But I don't see throwing away her money without her knowing all about it any the more."

"Throwing away her money?" Herbert asked, in tones of lofty protest.

"Well, I don't mean that of course," the good-natured Heron hastened to explain in all sincerity. "You know very well, my dear Blanchet, what I think of your merits and your poems, and of all true poets. I know that it is an honor for any one, whether man or woman, to be allowed to help a poet to come out before the world and make a success. I only wish I had had a chance of doing such a thing for you; but this young lady, you know—I don't feel quite certain whether I ought to have spent her money so freely."

"I can reassure you, I think," the poet said, with chilling dignity. "I should never have allowed any one to do anything for me without having satisfied myself that it was done in the unstinting spirit of friendship, and by some one whom such kindness would not hurt."

"All right; I am glad to hear you say so, of course, but you won't wonder at my scruples, perhaps——"

"Your scruples, my dear fellow, do you infinite honor," Mr. Blanchet said, with a slight dash of irony in his tone, which Heron did not at the moment perceive, being in truth engrossed by some other thoughts. "But you may accept my assurance that there is no further occasion for them, and we will, if you please, change the subject."

Victor did not feel by any means well satisfied that there was no occasion for scruple, nor did he at all like his poetic friend's way of looking at the matter. But he reflected that Blanchet might after all have good warrant for what he had said, and that it was not for him to cavil at the generosity of a rich girl—if she were rich—toward a poor poet.

So they went along, the poet and his distinguished political friend, to the scene of the artistic and literary gathering, which the latter was so proud to see, and the former so proud to show.

We have all read in story about the effect of some little magic word, which once spoken makes that which was lovely before seem but loathly, and what was kindly wisdom sound like fatuous malignity. Was there some such ill-omened charm working all that night on Victor Heron? Nothing seemed to him like what he had expected. He was not impressed as he had felt sure he would be by the poets and other sons of genius. They did not seem to constitute an assembly of noble minds in whose midst he was to feel such reverence as the rude Gauls of history or legend felt in the presence of the Roman senators. The thoughts that he heard did not strike him as celestial in their origin. There was a good deal of disparagement and denunciation of absent authors and artists, which if the talkers had not been men of genius, Victor would certainly have thought ill-natured and spiteful. There seemed, at least, to his untutored mind, to be little more than a technical relish of art in all they said. It was not art they cared for, but only a clique and its tricks. A group of discontented spinsters girding at their younger sisters who were married could hardly have shown themselves more narrow-minded and malign. The effect on Victor was profoundly depressing. It was like that which might be wrought upon a youth, who after gazing in rapture on the performance of some queen of classic tragedy, is at his earnest desire taken to see her in her private life, and finds her slatternly of dress, mean of speech, wholly uninspired by her art, and only taking a genuine pleasure in disparagement or slander of her rivals.

If Victor had known the world better, he would have known that much, very much, of all this was but the mere affectation and nonsense of youth. These young men were as yet among the "odious race of the unappreciated." Yet a little, and some of them will make a success, and will have the credit of the world for what they do, and they will turn out good fellows, kindly, true, and even modest. Nothing makes some young men so insufferably conceited and aggressive as the idea that they are not successful, and that people know it. There are many of us mortals with whom prosperity only agrees. On the other hand, some of these youths will fail early, completely, and wholesomely in their artistic attempts, and will find out the fact for good, and will retire from the field altogether, and settle down to something else, and make a success, or at least a decent living, in some other way of life, and will forget all the worser teaching of their earlier days; and will look back without bitterness on the time when they tried to impress a dull world, and have no feeling of hatred for those who have done better, but will marry and bring up children, and be Philistines and happy. Youth has only one season—luckily for a good many of us, who are decent fellows enough as long as we are content to be ourselves, and can do without affectation.



But there was something more in Victor Heron's feeling of depression that night than came from the mere fact that he had found a few young artists not quite such heroic spirits as he thought they ought to be. It was the demeanor of Herbert Blanchet that especially spoiled the evening for him. In truth the head of the poet was not a strong one, and was very easily turned by any little stimulant of whatever kind. His volume of poems this night affected all his being. He felt sure that he was at last about to force himself upon the recognition of the world, and he made up his mind that Miss Grey was in love with him. He conveyed hints of his approaching good fortune to his companions; and he received at first with benign courtesy their compliments on the success that seemed to await him in life and love. But when some too forward person suggested that he could possibly guess at the name of the heiress whose heart and hand were to bless the lucky poet, then Blanchet became gravely and even severely dignified.

"You will excuse me, Mellifont," he said grandly, the brandy and soda having, as was the wont of any such liquor taken by our poor poet, gone straight upward to his head—"you will excuse me, I am sure, if I say this is not exactly a subject for jocularity; or even, permit me to add, for general conversation, although among friends. My distinguished friend, Mr. Heron, will, I am sure, exactly appreciate what I say. Things may not be so completely settled as to make it proper that they should be spoken of as if—as if in short they were settled; you will excuse me, Mellifont, my dear fellow—you will excuse me."

Victor Heron thought it time for him to go, and rose accordingly, and Mr. Blanchet insisted on accompanying him down the stairs and to the door of the house.

"I thought it right, you know," the over-dignified poet said, "to put a stop to that sort of thing. Men have no right to make such inferences. I should have no right myself to assume that things were settled in that sort of way. It is not just to others—to another at least. You appreciate my motives I am sure, Heron, my dear friend?"

"I don't know that I even quite understand what your friend was talking about," said Heron coldly. "But if it was about any lady, I should think such conjecturing highly improper and impertinent; and I should be rather inclined to put a stop to it even more quickly."

"Quite my idea—I am glad you entirely concur with me, and approve of the course I have taken. But of course you would do so. I knew I could count on your approval. By the way, you know Mellifont?"

"The man you talked to just now?"

"Yes, Mellifont—a very good fellow, though a little too fond of talking—I have had to reprove him more than once, I can tell you. But a very good fellow for all that, and one of the only true artists now alive. He is a composer—you must hear him play some bits from his opera. He is at work on an opera, you know—or perhaps you have not heard?"

"I have not heard—no. I am rather out of the way of such things, I fear," said Victor, beginning to feel, in spite of himself, a certain awe of a man who could compose an opera, and thinking that, after all, a certain allowance must be made for the genius of one who could do such things.

"Oh, you must hear some of it soon! We feel satisfied that it will sound the death knell of all the existing schools of music. They are all wrong, sir, from the first to the last, from Mozart to Wagner—all wrong except Mellifont."

Victor was for the moment really staggered by the genius of this great man.

"What is his opera to be called?" he asked, not venturing to hazard any compromising observation.

"'The Seven Deadly Sins.' It is to be in seven acts, and each act is to give an entirely new illustration of a deadly sin—which Mellifont will show to be the only true virtues of mankind. It will make a revolution, I can tell you."

Victor thought it could hardly fail to do that if it were at all successful in the object set out by its author.

"It is to have seven heroines," the poet went on, still at the door, and refusing to allow Victor to depart. "Lot's daughters—let me see—Messalina, Locusta; Jezebel I think, Theodora, and I believe, Mrs. Brownrigg. It will be a splendid thing."

It was not easy for Victor to get away, for the poet had to tell him of other great works of art that were in the contemplation of members of the school. At length Blanchet released him, thanking him grandly for the assistance he had lent to the bringing out of his book, but adding even more grandly some words that fell painfully on Victor's ear.

"I hope to be independent of publishers and drudgery before long; I fancy—I rather believe it depends upon myself, and I think I owe it to my own genius to raise myself above the necessity of drudgery. Then I could do something worthy of myself, and the few whose praise I value."

Victor escaped at last and walked away. He was in a very discontented mood, an unusual thing for him. He could not help believing that there must be, or at least might be, something in the idea which Blanchet so evidently wished people to receive. He feared that there must be something more than mere kindly patronage in Miss Grey's generosity toward Blanchet. The thought was strangely disagreeable to him. He could not think with patience of such a girl being in love with such a man. He was now disposed to exaggerate the demerits of the poet, and to believe anything mean of one who could take a girl's money and give out as an excuse for taking it that she was in love with him. "If I had a sister," he thought, "and any fellow were to give such hints about her, I wonder how I should like it, and I wonder how much of it I should stand!"

He felt sorry, very sorry, for Minola, and perhaps a little angry with her too for allowing to any man the chance of suggesting such things. The more he thought of her and all he had seen of her, the less she seemed fitted for such a lover as Mr. Blanchet. She had impressed Victor greatly by her manners, her fresh and frank character, and the simple, trusting generosity which was her transparent attribute. He began to look on the poet now as a mere fortune-hunter, who was fastening upon the girl because of the money which he expected her to have. He did not know how consuming a passion is the vanity of the small artistic mind—the mind which has art's ambition only and not art's inspiration. Mr. Blanchet was not a fortune-hunter in the ordinary sense. His poems were to him as yet much dearer than any fortune. He was drawn to Minola not because she had money, but because having money she was willing to spend some of it in bringing out his poems in a handsome edition.

Our hero's quixotic temper was thoroughly roused by the thought of some wrong which he fancied was about to be done to Minola. He was not one of those lucky beings who can let things alone. He never could let things alone. Had he had the gift of those who can, he would just then have been governor of some rising colony, and would have been in a fair way of promotion. He was tormented by the thought that there was something he ought to do to save Minola from some vaguely terrible fate, and by not being able to see what the something was which lay within his power to do. Before he had walked many yards he had worked himself into the idea that a plot of some sort was in preparation to entrap Minola into a marriage with one who, poet or not, was wholly unworthy of her.

His energetic spirit at length suggested something to be done. It was not, perhaps, a very practical or useful stroke of policy, but it was the only thing which occurred to him and the only thing which he did just then. He started off at full speed to walk under the windows of the house where Miss Grey was living. It was now fully midnight, and of course he had not the slightest idea of seeing Minola, and, indeed, would have been greatly embarrassed if he had seen her. But he started off, nevertheless, to walk under her windows with as eager a step and as steady a purpose as if he were really hastening to rescue her from some imminent danger. It was only a short walk from where he then was to Minola's lodgings; but Heron was so eager in his purpose that the way seemed miles, which he was covering with hasty strides.

When he reached the house where Minola lived, the aspect of the place was just such as, if he had been a lover, he might have expected or desired to find. The house was all in darkness save for one window. There was a looking-glass in that window, making it plain to the least observant of human creatures that it must be the window of a bedroom. How could a lover doubt that that must be the window of the room which was hers, and that she then watched the stars of midnight, and that she thought of love, and that her soul was, as Jean Paul puts it, in the blue ether? For the moment Victor Heron found himself wishing that he were a lover—were the lover of whom the lady, fancy-fixed in that one lighted room, might be thinking. But if it were Minola's room, he thought, she certainly had not him or any memory of him in her mind. It was a clear, soft midnight, and the moon that shone on the near roof of the British Museum seemed as poetic and as sad as though it fell on the ruins of the Parthenon. No practice in colonial administration can wholly squeeze the poetic and the romantic out of the breast of a young man of Heron's time of life. As he stood there his grievance seemed as far off as the moon herself, but not by any means so poetic and beautiful. He paced up and down, feeling very young and odd, and unlike his usual self. He was happy in a queer, boyish way that had a certain shamefaced sensation about it, as when a youth for the first time drinks suddenly of some sparkling wine, and feels his brain and senses all aflame with delicious ecstasy, and is afraid of the feeling although he delights in it.

It was a natural part of the half fantastic chivalry of his character that he should have felt a sort of satisfaction in thus for the moment being near Minola, as if by that means he were in some sort protecting her against danger. If at that time any softer and warmer feeling than mere friendship were mingling itself with Heron's sensations, he did not then know it. He thought of the girl as a sweet friend, new to him, indeed, but very dear, in whose happiness he felt deeply interested, and over whom he had taken it into his head that he had a right to watch. She seemed to be strangely alone in the world of London, and, indeed, to be at the same time not suited for anything in London but just such isolation. He never could think of her as mixing in the ordinary society of the metropolis. He could not think of her as one of the common crowd, following out mechanically the registered routine of the season's amusements, listening to the commonplace talk, and compliments, and cheap cynicism of the drawing-room and the five o'clock tea. To him she appeared as different from all that, and as poetically lifted above it, as if she were Hawthorne's Hilda, high up in her Roman tower, among her doves, and near to the blue sky. Except in the home of the Moneys, Heron had never seen Minola in anything that even looked like society; and there was a good deal of the odd and the fresh in that home which took it out of the range of the commonplace, and did not interfere with his poetic idealization of Minola. Her presence and her way of life appeared alike to him a poetic creation. So quiet, self-sufficing a life, alone in the midst of the crowd, such simple strength of purpose, such a tranquil choice of the kind of existence that suited her best, such generosity and such gracious, loving kindness—all this together made up a picture which had a natural fascination for a chivalrous young man, who had never before had time to allow the softer and more romantic elements of his nature any chance of expression. It may be that for the present Minola was to him but the first suggestion of an embodiment of all the vague, floating thoughts and visions of love and womanhood that must now and then cross the spiritual horizon of every young man, no matter how closely he may be occupied with colonial affairs and the condition of the colored races. The hero of a French story, whereof there is not otherwise over-much good to be said, speaks with a feeling as poetic as it is true when he says that in the nightingale's song he heard the story of the love that he ought to have known, but which had not yet come to him. Perhaps in the eyes and in the voice of Minola Victor Heron unconsciously found this story told for him.

However that might be, it is certain that Heron found a curious satisfaction this night in passing again and again before Minola's door, and making believe to himself as if he were guarding her against danger. He might have remained on guard in this way, heaven knows how long—for, as we know, he was not fond of early going to bed—but that he suddenly "was aware," as the old writers put it, of another watcher as well as himself. It was unmistakable. Another man came up and passed slowly once or twice under the same windows, and on the side of the street where Heron had put himself on guard. Then the new comer, observing, no doubt, that he was not alone, had crossed to the other side of the street, and Heron thought he was only a chance passer and was gone altogether. Presently, however, he crossed the road again, and stood a short distance away from Heron as if he were watching him. Now, though Victor Heron was not a lover, he had just as much objection as any lover could have to being seen by observant eyes when watching under a girl's window. The mere thought recalled him at once to chilling commonplace. He was for going away that moment; all the delight was gone out of his watching. But he was a little curious to know if the new comer were really only a casual stranger whom his movements had stirred into idle curiosity. So he went straightway down the street and passed the unwelcome intruder. He felt sure the face of the man was known to him, although he could not at first recall to mind the person's identity. He felt sure, too, by the way in which the man looked at him and then turned suddenly off, that the new comer had recognized him as well. This was tormenting for the moment, as he went on perplexing himself by trying to think who it was that he had seen in this unexpected and unwished-for way. He walked slowly, and looked back once or twice. He could not see his disturber any more. The man had either gone away or was, perhaps, standing in the shadow of a doorway. Suddenly an idea flashed upon Heron.

"Why, of course," he exclaimed, "it's he! I ought to have known! It's the man from Keeton—the hated rival."

By "hated rival," however, Heron did not mean a rival in love, but only in electioneering; for he now knew that it was Mr. Sheppard he had seen, and he remembered how Mr. Sheppard, when he met him in Minola's room, had seemed oddly sullen and unwilling to fraternize. This was the reason why Heron called him the hated rival. His own idea of a rival in an election contest was that of a person whom one ought to ask to dinner, and treat with especial courtesy and fair offer of friendship.

Suddenly, however, another idea had occurred to him.

"What on earth can he be doing there," he asked, "under her window? Can it be possible that he too is a lover?"

He too? Who then was the lover—the other lover? Heron did not believe, and would not admit, that Blanchet was a genuine lover at all. The whole theory of Victor's duty to watch under Minola's windows was based on the assumption that Blanchet was no true lover, but a cunning hunter of fortune. Why then ask, was Mr. Sheppard too a lover? Heron did not at the moment stop to ask himself any such question, but after awhile the absurdity of his words occurred to him, and he was a little amused and a good deal ashamed of his odd and hasty way of putting the question.

"Why shouldn't he be there as well as I?" he said. "Why should he be a lover any more than I?"

Then he began to assure himself that the hated rival must have been there only by chance; and it is doubtful whether if he had thought much longer over the question he would not have ended by convincing himself that nothing but the merest chance had brought him, too, under Minola's window panes.

It was, indeed, Minola's window under which he had been watching; and she too was watching, and never dreamed that he was so near. She looked from her window not long after he had gone, and saw the street all lonely, and felt lonely herself, and shuddered, thinking that life would ever be a dreary piece of work for her. It is a melancholy fact that all that time, and even long after she had gone in shuddering from the window, poor Sheppard was standing in a doorway at the opposite side of the street, and that she not only never saw him, but never thought of him. Her thoughts were of Victor Heron, and of her own folly and her own love—that love which seemed such folly, which was so hopeless, which she knew, or at least believed it was a sort of treason against friendship to indulge, although in absolute secret.

In Uhland's pretty poem called "Departure" a youth is going on his wanderings, and his comrades escort him a little on his way, and as they go along they pass beneath the windows of a pretty girl. The lad looks up, and would fain if he might have a rose from her hand, and yet tells himself that he would not have it—for to what end to have the rose when she whom he loved cared nothing for him, and the rose would only wither with him, and to no purpose? When he has gone the girl strains her eyes after him in grief, and wonders what the world is to be to her now that he she loved is going far away, and never knew of her love. A few timely words might have spared all the heart-ache, no doubt; but it will be a very different world from that which we have known when all the words that might have been timely are spoken in time, or even when the feelings that might prompt the timely words have learned their own meaning at the right moment to give it breath.



The next morning Heron rose with a distinct purpose of doing something to put Minola on her guard. His purpose to do something was much more clear than his knowledge of what he had better do. Anyhow he thought he would go and see Minola, and say something to her. When he began to speak he would probably hit upon the thing to say. As he might have put it himself, Providence would pull him through somehow. The first thing was to get to speech of Minola. This, at least, ought not to be hard to compass.

His first idea was simply to go to her house and ask to see her. But when he was near the scene of his mounting guard the past night he began to think of the difficulties that would be put in his way if any one else were present. How, for example, could he possibly say what he specially wanted to say if Mary Blanchet were present, or were even coming and going in and out of the room, as she was almost sure to be? On the other hand, how could he formally ask for a private conversation with Minola without stirring all manner of absurd curiosity and conjecture? At the very least, Mary Blanchet would be sure to ask, when he had gone, what he had come to say; and that would, under the circumstances, be rather embarrassing for Minola. He gave up, therefore, the idea of seeing Miss Grey at her own house.

Another plan at once occurred to him. He knew how often Minola walked in Regent's Park—he would go and walk there about the time which she usually chose, and he would go again and again until he met her. So he started off for the Park, greatly relieved in mind to be doing anything. All the time there was a good deal of work on his account which he might and, if he were at all a sensible young man, would have been doing. The time that he was spending in trying to ward off from Minola a supposed danger might, if properly used, have procured him an interview with a Cabinet Minister, or paved the way for easy success at the future election for Keeton. There were twenty things which Mr. Money had often told him he must do if he would have the faintest hope of any success in anything; and all these things he was utterly neglecting because he chose to think that he was called on to give some advice to a girl who perhaps would repay him with but little thanks for his officious attempt at interference.

He walked slowly through the park, along the paths which he knew that she loved, and made for the canal. It was a soft, gray day, with no sky seen. The air was surcharged with moisture; but it was not raining, and the grass was only as if a heavy dew had settled on it. The soft breath that floated over the fields was warm and languid. Only three colors were to be seen all across the park: the green of the grass, the gray of the clouds, or of the one cloud rather, and the dull black of the tree-trunks. These colors indeed were softened, and shaded away, and blended into each other, with indefinable varieties of tone and delicate interchanges of effect. It was just the day to make a certain class of observer curse the stupid and foggy monotony of the English climate. It was the day, too, to gladden the heart of a certain refined class of artist with whom delicate effects of tone and shade are precious and familiar. Certainly it might be called a day of poetic atmosphere. To Victor, who had long been used to the unwinking steadiness of a tropical sun, there was something specially refreshing and delightful in the grass, the trees, and the cloud. He found himself yearning in heart for a life which would leave him more time and thought for the skies, the trees, and the air.

Suddenly the scene vanished from his eyes, and he only saw Minola Grey. He was now approaching the canal, and he saw her leaning over the bridge and looking into the water. It was early in the day—too early for the nursemaids and the children, and the ordinary walkers, and there was no one but Minola now in Heron's sight.

The girl, as she leaned on the railing of the bridge and looked into the water, might have been adopted by any artist as a model-figure of melancholy. If Victor had been less in a hurry with everything—if he had remained where he then was and looked at her unperceived for a few moments, Heaven knows what inspiration of ideas, what revealings about himself and her might have come into his mind. But Victor waited for nothing—seldom in life gave himself much time to think, and, in any case, would have had an instinctive objection to even a moment's unperceived watching of a meditating girl. He was so rejoiced at the readiness with which his desire to meet her had been gratified, that he thought he could hardly seize his chance too soon. In his eagerness he even forgot that the task he had undertaken was rather embarrassing, and that he had not yet made up his mind as to what he was going to say. He was by Minola's side in a moment.

She was so much surprised and startled that Victor was quite ashamed of having come upon her in such a sudden way. He had forgotten that all women have nerves, and get startled in ways unknown to men. At least, he assumed it must be for some reason of this kind that Minola seemed so much disturbed when he came up, but he certainly had not supposed that girls so clever and healthy as Miss Grey were usually troubled with nerves.

Minola recovered herself very soon, however, and got rid of all appearance of mere nervous embarrassment, although there was for a while a certain constraint in her manner.

"Have you been long here?" he asked.

"Not very long; at least it did not seem long. I like to be here at this time; there are so few people."

"Yes; I knew you were likely to be here about this time if you were coming at all to-day," he said; an awkward remark, as it suggested that he had come expressly to meet her.

"I come here at all manner of times," she said; "but I think I like this time the best."

"You are not going any further, I suppose?"

"No; I thought of turning back now, and going home."

"I'll walk a little way with you if you will allow me?"

Of course she had no objection to make. They had walked in that place often before, and it was a matter of certainty that as they did meet they would walk together. He need hardly have asked her if she would allow him to walk with her now.

So they turned and walked a little off the beaten track, and under the trees. When they had walked a certain distance in one direction Victor turned round and she turned with him, as if she were merely obeying his signal of command. It has already been said more than once that Mr. Heron always went on as if he were ever so much older than she, and belonging indeed to a different stage of life. He bore himself as a man of forty or thereabout might do with a young woman of Minola's age.

"How do you like Blanchet's book?" he asked abruptly.

"It is very beautiful, I suppose. It's a little too ornamental and fantastic perhaps for my taste; but I suppose that is in keeping with the style of the poems; and he is delighted with the book."

"It has cost a great deal of money—much more than it ought to have cost. I don't like the thing at all."

"But think of the joy given to the poet. It is surely not very dearly bought at the price. I never knew of a man so happy."

"Yes, yes; that is all very well for him——"

"It is very well for me too, Mr. Heron—to be able to do a kindness for any human creature. I dare say it has given me as much pleasure as it has given him, and made me quite as proud too—and is not that something to gain?"

"Still I can't help feeling uneasy about this thing. It has cost a heap of money—much more than I ever supposed it would—and I seem as if I had brought you into all the expense."

"How could that be, Mr. Heron? I expressly wished Mr. Blanchet to do as he pleased; and he understood me exactly as I wished him to do. You had nothing to do with it."

"Oh, yes! I had something to do with it; and then—excuse me—you are rather young perhaps——"

"Perhaps I can't be expected to know my own mind; or ought not to be trusted with the spending of my own money?"

"No, I didn't mean that; but you might not have known exactly what you were being let in for; and it is a good deal of money for a girl to pay."

"And in fact you don't think a girl ought to be allowed to spend her money without some wise person of the superior sex to guide her hand? Thank you very much, Mr. Heron, but I think I may have my own way in this at least. I have often told you that I left Keeton because I could not stand the control of wiser and better persons than myself. I am not at all a good girl, Mr. Heron; I never said I was. The counsels of the wise are sadly thrown away on me, I fear."

She spoke in a hard and ungenial tone, which he had not heard her use before. He could not help looking at her with an expression of wonder. She saw the expression and understood it.

"You are shocked at my want of sweet, feminine docility? I ought not to have any ideas of my own, I suppose?"

"No, I am not shocked, and I am not at all such a ridiculous person as you would seem to suppose, and I have none of the ideas you set down to me; but you don't seem quite like yourself, and you speak as if you were offended with me for something."

"Offended? Oh, no. How could I possibly be offended? I am very much obliged, on the contrary, for the trouble you take for one who seems to you quite unable to take care of herself."

Victor did not like her tone. There was something aggressive in it. He was not experienced enough in the ways of society to cry content to that which grieved his heart, and his thoughts therefore showed themselves pretty clearly in his face.

"I don't like Blanchet's taking all this money," he said, after a moment of silence. "I don't think a man ought to take such a helping hand as that from—well, from——"

"From a woman, you were going to say? Why not from a woman, Mr. Heron? Are we never to do a kind thing, we unfortunate creatures, because we are women and are young?"

"No, I don't say that; but there are things it may become a woman to do, and which it doesn't quite so well become a man to profit by. I don't think Blanchet——"

"Mr. Blanchet seems to have a higher idea of what a woman's friendship may be than you have, Mr. Heron. He does not see any degradation in allowing a woman to hold him out a helping hand when he wants one. I like his ideas better than yours. You say you would have done this little service for him if you had been allowed. Why should there be any greater degradation to him in having it done by me? At all events you can't wonder if I don't see it all at once."

"Of course if you are satisfied and pleased, there is nothing more to be said in the matter."

"I am satisfied and pleased. Why should I not be? I asked a friend to let me do something to help him, and he answered me just in the spirit in which I spoke. Of course I am glad to find that there is even one man who could take a friendly offer in a friendly way. There are not many such men, I suppose?"

Victor could not help smiling at her emphatic way of expressing her scorn of men.

"I do believe you have really turned yourself misanthropical by reading 'Le Misanthrope,'" he said.

"Well, why should there not be a woman Alceste? although I never knew any woman in real life more worthy to be classed with him than the men we meet in real life are. Miss Alceste, I think, would sound very prettily. I wish I could think myself entitled to bear such a name?"

"Or Miss Misanthrope," he suggested. "How would that do for a young lady's name?"

"Admirably, I think. That would get over all the difficulty too, and save foolish persons from thinking that one was setting up for another Alceste. I should like very much to be called Miss Misanthrope."

"If you go on as you are doing, you will soon be entitled to bear the name," said Victor gravely. "At the present moment I don't know that I should much object to that."

"No! I am glad that anything I am likely to do has a chance of pleasing you. But why should you not object just at present? Why not now as well as at any other time?"

"Because I should like you to be a little misanthropical just now, and a little distrustful—of men, that is to say, Miss Grey."

She colored slightly, although she had no idea of his meaning yet.

"I always thought you were full of trust in the whole human race, Mr. Heron; I thought you liked everybody and believed in everybody. Now you tell me to distrust all mankind."

"I didn't say that."

"No? Some particular person, then?"

"Some particular person, perhaps. At least I don't mean exactly that," Heron hastened to explain, his conscience smiting him at the thought that perhaps after all he might be suggesting unjust suspicions of an absent man who was a sort of friend. "I only mean that you are very generous and unselfish, and that there might be persons who might try to make use of your good nature, and whom perhaps you might not quite understand. I don't know whether I ought to speak about this at all."

"Nor I, Mr. Heron, I am sure; for I really don't know what you are speaking of or what mysterious danger is hanging over me. But I hope there is something of the kind, for I should so like to resemble a heroine of romance."

"There is not anything very romantic in prospect so far as I know," he said, now almost wishing he had said nothing, and yet feeling in his heart a serious fear that Minola might be led to put too much faith in Blanchet. "But if I might speak out freely, and without any fear of your misunderstanding me or being offended, there is something, Miss Grey, that I should very much like to say." He spoke in an uneasy and constrained way, forcing himself on to an ungracious task.

"You have been preaching distrust to me, Mr. Heron, and you have been finding fault generally with all women who trust anybody. To show you how your lessons are thrown away on me, I shall certainly trust you as much as you like, and I shall not misunderstand anything you say nor be offended by it." There was something of her old sweet frankness in her manner as she spoke these words, and Heron was warmed by it.

"Well," he said at last, "you are a girl, and young, and living almost alone, and people tell me you are going to have money. You have promised to excuse my blunt way of talking out, haven't you? I almost wish for your sake, as you like to live this kind of life, that you had just enough of money to live upon and no more; but I hear that that is not the case, or at all events is not to be. Well, the only thing is that people who I think are not true, and are not honest, and who are not worthy of you in any way whatever, may try to make you think that they are true, and sincere, and all the rest of it."

"Well, Mr. Heron, what if they do?"

"You may perhaps be persuaded to believe them."

"And even if I am, what matter is that? I had much rather be deceived in such things than know the truth, if the truth is to mean that people are all deceitful."

"I don't think you want to understand me," he said.

"Indeed I do; I only want to understand you; but I fail as yet. Why not speak out, Mr. Heron, like a man and a brother? If there is anything you want me to know, do please make me to know it in the clearest way."

She was growing impatient.

"You will have lovers," he said, driven to despair when it seemed as if she could not understand a mere hint of any kind; "of course you must know that you are attractive and all that—and if you come to have money, you will be besieged with fellows—with admirers I mean. Do be a little distrustful—of one at least; I don't like him and I wish you didn't—and I can't very well tell you why, only that he does not seem to me to be manly or even honest."

She colored a little, but she also smiled faintly, for she still did not understand him.

"I suppose I must know the man you mean, Mr. Heron; for I think he is the only man I ever heard you say anything against, and I have not forgotten. But what can have made you think that I needed any lecture about him? I don't suppose he ever thought about me in that way in his life, or would marry one of my birth and my bringing up even if I asked him. And in any case, Mr. Heron, I would not marry him even if he asked me. But what a shame it seems to arrange in advance for the refusing of a man who never showed the faintest intention of making an offer."

At first Heron did not quite understand her. Then he suddenly caught her meaning.

"Oh, that fellow? I didn't mean him. I never could have supposed that you were likely to be taken in by him."

"To do him justice, Mr. Heron, he never seems to have any thought of taking any one in. Such as he is he always shows himself, I think."

"Oh, I don't care about him——"

"Nor I, Mr. Heron, I assure you. But whom then do you care about—in that sense?"

"I distrust a man who takes a woman's money in a reckless and selfish way," Heron said impetuously. "That is a man I would not trust. Don't trust him, Miss Grey; believe me, he is a cad—I mean a selfish and deceitful fellow. I can't bear the thought of a girl like you being sacrificed—or sacrificing yourself as you might do perhaps—and I tell you that he is just the sort of man——"

"Are you speaking of Mr. Blanchet now, Mr. Heron?" Her tone was cold and clear. She was evidently hurt, but determined now to have the whole question out.

"Yes, I am speaking of Blanchet, of course—of whom else could I be speaking in such a way?"

"Mr. Blanchet is my friend, Mr. Heron; I thought he was a friend of yours as well."

"Well, I thought he was a manly, honest sort of fellow—I don't think so now," Victor went on impetuously, warming himself as he went into increasing strength of conviction. "I know you will hate me for telling you this, but I can't help that. I am as much interested in your happiness as if—as if you were my sister—and if you were my sister, I would just do the same."

It would indeed be idle to attempt to describe the course of the feelings that ran through Minola's breast as she listened to the words of this kind which he continued to pour out. But out of all that swept through her—out of shame, surprise, anger, grief, the one thought came uppermost, and survived, and guided her—the thought that she had only to leave Heron's appeal unanswered, and her secret was safe for ever.

She made up her mind, and was self-contained and composed to all appearance again.

"Let us not say any more about this, Mr. Heron; I am sure you mean it as a friend; and I never could allow myself to feel offended by anything said in friendship. I am sorry you have such an opinion of Mr. Blanchet; I have a much better opinion of him; I like him better than I like most men; but you know we have just agreed that I ought to be called 'Miss Misanthrope,' and I assure you I mean to do my very best to deserve the name. No—please don't say any more—I had rather not hear it indeed; and if you know anything of women, Mr. Heron, you must know that we never take advice on these matters. No; trust to my earning my name of Miss Misanthrope; but don't tell me of the demerits of this or that particular man. I had rather hate men in the general than in all the particular cases—and how long we must have talked about this nonsense, for here is the gate of the park; and Mary Blanchet will be thinking that I am lost!"

They almost always parted at this park gate. This time he felt that he must not attempt to go any further with her. She smiled and nodded to him with a manner of constrained friendliness, and went her way, and Heron's heart was deeply moved, for he feared that he had lost his friend.



Two events occurring almost together affected a good deal some of the people of this story. The first was the death of Mrs. Saulsbury.

Miss Grey was at once invited by the lawyers who had the charge of her father's affairs to visit Keeton, in order to become fully acquainted with the new disposition of things in which she had so much interest. Thereupon Mr. Money announced that, as Miss Grey had no very close friend to look after her interests, he was resolved to put himself in the place of a parent or some near relation, and go with her and see that all her interests were properly cared for. Minola was unwilling to put him to so much trouble and loss of time, well knowing how absorbed in business he was; but he set all her remonstrances aside with blunt, good-humored kindness.

"Lucy is coming with us," he said, "if you don't think her in the way; it might be pleasant for you to have a companion."

"I should so much like to go with Nola," pleaded Lucy.

"Oh, I shall be delighted if Lucy will go," Minola said, not well knowing how to put into words her sense of all their kindness. It was really a great relief to her to have Lucy's companionship in such a visit. Mary Blanchet did not like to go back even for a few days to Keeton. The poetess objected to seeing ever again the place where she considered that art and she had been degraded by her servitude in the court-house. So the conditions of the visit were all settled.

But there arose suddenly some new conditions which Minola had never expected. The long looked-for vacancy at length occurred in the representation of Keeton. The sitting member announced his determination to resign his seat as soon as the necessary arrangements for such a step could be put into effect. It was imperative that Victor Heron should lose no time in throwing himself upon the vacant borough. Mr. Money and Lucy rattled up to Minola's door one breathless morning with the news. Lucy's eyes were positively dancing with excitement and delight.

"It seems to me that there's going to be a regular invasion of your borough, Miss Grey," Mr. Money said. "We're all going to be there. You see that you are under no manner of compliment to me. I must have gone down to Keeton in any case; it's one of the lucky things that don't often befall a busy man like me to be able to kill the two birds with the one stone. I must take care of our friend Heron as well as of you. He would be doing some ridiculous thing if there were no elder to look after him. He is as innocent of the dodges of an English election as you are of the ways of English lawyers. So we'll be all together; that will be very pleasant. Of course we'll not interfere with you. You shall be just as quiet as you like while we are doing our electioneering."

What could Minola say against all this arrangement, which seemed so satisfactory and so delightful to her friends? It was not pleasant for her to be brought thus into a sort of companionship with Victor Heron. But it would be far less pleasant, it would indeed be intolerable and not to be thought of, that she should in any way raise an objection or make a difficulty which might hint of the feelings that possessed her.

"After all, what does it matter?" she asked herself as Mr. Money was speaking. "I shall have to suffer this kind of thing in some way for half my life, I suppose. It is no one's fault but my own. Why should I disturb the arrangements of these kind people because of any weaknesses of mine? If women will be fools, at least they ought to try to hide their folly. This is as good practice for me as I could have."

So she told Mr. Money and Lucy that any arrangement that suited them would suit her, and that she would be ready to go the moment he gave the word. Then Mr. Money hastened away to look after other things, and Lucy remained behind "to help Nola with her preparations," as she insisted on putting it, but partly, as Minola felt only too sure, to talk with her about Victor Heron.

Since Heron had offered her his advice in the park, and she had put it aside, Minola and he had only met once or twice. Then he had attempted, the first time of their meeting, to renew his apologies, and she had put them lightly away, as she already had done the advice, and had given him to understand that she wished to hear no more of the matter. She had hoped that by assuming a manner of indifference she might lead him to forget the whole affair. But he did not understand her, and really believed that he had lost her friendship for ever by the manner in which he had spoken against Herbert Blanchet. He was troubled for her much more than for himself, believing, or at least fearing, that she had set her heart on a man unworthy of her. He kept away from her therefore, assuming that his society was no longer welcome, and resolute not to intrude on her.

Minola had hoped that the worst was over, and that he and she were likely to settle gradually and unnoticed by others into a condition of ordinary acquaintanceship. This melancholy hope, to her a cruel necessity in itself, but yet the best hope she could see now left for her, was likely to be disturbed for a while by this ill-omened visit to Keeton.

Minola was busy making her preparations for going to Keeton, and with a very heavy heart. Everything about the visit was now distressing to her. The occasion was mournful; she dreaded long talks and discussions with Mr. Saulsbury; she dreaded meeting old acquaintances in Keeton; she shrank from the responsibilities of various kinds that seemed to be thrust upon her. When she left Keeton she thought she had done with it for ever. Where was the free life she had arranged for herself? Nothing seemed to turn out as she had expected.

Meanwhile Mary Blanchet and Lucy Money were both delighted, and in their different ways, at the prospect of Minola's visit to Keeton. Mary saw her leader and patroness come back rich, and ready to be distinguished and to confer distinction. Lucy Money had the prospect of variety, of a holiday with Minola, whom she loved, and of being very often in the society of Victor Heron. Minola was, if anything, made additionally sad by the thought that it was not in her power to share their feelings, and the fear that she might seem a wet blanket sometimes on their happiness.

Lucy had been with her all the morning, helping her with Mary to make preparations for the journey. Minola was glad when it was found that some things were wanting, and Lucy and Mary offered to go out and buy them in Oxford street.

Minola was enjoying the sense of being alone, and was, at the same time, secretly accusing herself of want of friendship because she enjoyed it, when a card was brought to her, and she was told that the gentleman said he wanted to speak to her, if she pleased, "rather particular." The card was that of Mr. St. Paul. He had never visited Minola before, nor was she even aware that he knew where she lived. She was surprised, but she did not know of any reason why she might not see him. She hastened down to her sitting-room, and there she found Mr. St. Paul, as she had found Mr. Blanchet once before. Mr. St. Paul looked even a stranger figure in her room than Mr. Blanchet had done, she thought. He seemed far too tall for the place, and had a heedless, lounging, half-swaggering way, which appeared as if it were compounded of the old manner of the cavalry man and the newer habits of the western hunter. Nothing, however, could have been more easy, confident, and self-possessed than the way in which he came forward to greet Minola. If he had been visiting her every day for a month before, he could not have been more friendly and at his ease.

"How d'ye do, Miss Grey? Just in time to see you, I suppose, before you go? I've been down to Keeton already. I'm going down again—I mean to make my mark there somehow."

Minola thought, with a certain half-amused, half-abashed feeling, of the remarks she had heard concerning herself and Mr. St. Paul; but she did not show any embarrassment in her manner. Indeed, Mr. St. Paul was not a person to allow any one to feel much embarrassed in his presence. He was entirely easy, self-satisfied, and unaffected, and he had a way of pouring out his confidences as though he had known Minola from her birth upward.

"I hope you found a pleasant reception there?"

"Yes, well enough for that matter. I find my brother and his wife are not anything like so popular as I was given to understand that they were. I saw my brother in London—didn't I tell you?—before I went down to Keeton, you know."

"No, I did not know that you had seen him; I hope he was glad to see you, Mr. St. Paul?"

"Not he; I dare say he was very sorry I hadn't been wiped out by the Indians. Do you know what being wiped out means?"

"Yes, I think I could guess that much. I suppose it means being killed?"

"Of course. I mean to teach you all the slang of the West; I think a nice girl never looks so nice as when she is talking good expressive slang. Our British slang is all unmeaning stuff, you know; only consists in calling a thing by some short vulgar word—or some long and pompous word, the fun being in the pompousness; but the western slang is a sort of picture-writing, don't you know?—a kind of compressed metaphor, answering the purposes of an intellectual pemmican or charqui. Do you know what these things are, Miss Grey?"

"Oh, yes; compressed meats of some kind, I suppose. But I don't think I care about slang very much."

"You may be sure you will when you get over the defects of your Keeton bringing up. But what was I going to tell you? Let me see. Oh, yes, about my brother and his wife. The honest Keeton folks seem to have forgotten them. But I was speaking, too, about my going to see my brother in town. Oh, yes, I went to see him; he didn't want me, and he made no bones about letting me know it. He thinks I have disgraced the family; it was quite like the scene in the play—whose play is it?—I am sure I don't remember—where Lord Foppington's brother goes to see him, and is taken so coolly. I haven't read the play for more years than you have lived in the world, I dare say, but it all came back upon me in a moment. I felt like saying, 'Good-by, Foppington,' only that he would never have understood the allusion, and would think I meant to say he was a 'fop,' which he is not, bless him."

"Then your visit did not bring you any nearer to a reconciliation with your brother?"

"Not a bit of it—pushed us further asunder, I think. The odd thing was that I told him I wanted nothing from him, and that I had made money enough for myself in the West. You would have thought that would have fetched him, wouldn't you? Not the least in life, I give you my word." And Mr. St. Paul laughed good-humoredly at the idea.

"I am sorry to hear it," said Minola. "I think there are quarrels and spites enough in the world, without brothers joining in with all the rest."

"Bad form, isn't it—don't you think? But I don't suppose in real life brothers and sisters ever do care much for each other—do you think they do? I haven't known any such cases—have you?"

Minola could not contribute much from her own family history to demonstrate the affection and devotion of brothers, but she had no idea of agreeing in the truth of Mr. St. Paul's philosophic reflections for all that.

"I believe what you say is true enough as regards the brothers, but I can't admit it of the sisters."

"Come now, you don't really believe that nonsense, I know."

"Believe what nonsense? That sisters may be fond of their brothers sometimes?"

"No, I don't mean that; but that there is any real difference between men and women in these ways—that men are all bad and women all good, and that sort of thing. One's as bad as the other, Miss Grey. When you have lived as long in the world as I have you'll find it, I tell you. But I don't find much fault with either lot. I think they are both right enough all things considered, don't you know?"

"I am sure Mary Blanchet is devoted to her brother," Miss Grey said warmly.

"That little old maid? Well, now, do you know, I shouldn't wonder. That's just the sort of woman to be devoted to a brother, and, of course, he doesn't care twopence about her."

"Oh, for shame!" said Minola, not, however, feeling quite satisfied about the strength of Herbert Blanchet's affection for his sister, even while she felt bound, for Mary's sake, to utter her protest against his being set down as wholly undeserving.

"But, I say," Mr. St. Paul observed, "what a fool he is! I don't think I ever saw a more conceited cad and idiot."

"He is a very particular friend of mine, Mr. St. Paul," Miss Grey began. "At least, his sister is one of my oldest friends."

"Yes, yes; just so. The good old spinster is a friend of yours, and you try to like the cad brother on her account. All quite right, of course. I should say he was just the sort of fellow to borrow the poor old girl's money, if she had any."

"Oh, Mary has no money, and I am sure if she had she would be only too glad to give it to him."

"Very likely; anyhow he would be only too glad to take it, you may be sure. But I don't want to say anything against your friends, Miss Grey, if you don't like it. Only women generally do like it, you know—and then you may say anything you please, in your turn, against any of my friends or relatives. I shan't be offended one bit, I can assure you."

Minola had nothing to say, and therefore said nothing. Her new acquaintance did not allow any silence to spring up.

"Talking of friends," he said, "there is one of your friends who politely declines any helping hand of mine in the election business at Keeton, although I think I could do him a good turn with some of the fellows who are out of humor with my brother. Our quixotic young friend will have none of the help of brothers who quarrel with brothers, it seems. Easy to see that he never had a brother."

"Mr. Heron is a man of very sensitive nature, I believe," Minola said; "he will not do anything that he does not think exactly right, Mr. Money says."

"Yes, so I hear. Odd, is it not? Heron always was a confounded young fool, you know. He got into all his difficulties by bothering about things that oughtn't to have concerned him one red cent. Well, he won't have my disinterested assistance. There again he is a fool, for I could have done something for him, and Money knows it—it was partly on Money's account that I thought of taking up Heron's side of the affair, because, so far as I am concerned, anybody else would do me just as well so long as he opposed my brother's man."

"I can quite understand that Mr. Heron would not allow himself to be made a mere instrument to work out your quarrel with your brother. I think he was quite right."

The good-humored St. Paul laughed.

"All very fine, Miss Grey, and it does for a lady uncommonly well, no doubt; but if you want to get into Parliament, it won't do to be quite so squeamish. I am sure I should be only too happy to get the help of Cain against Abel or Abel against Cain if I could in such a case."

"Most men would, I dare say," Minola answered, with as much severity as she could assume under the possible penalty of Mr. St. Paul's laughter. "But I am glad that there are some men, or that there is one man, at least, who thinks there is some object in life higher than that of getting into Parliament."

"Oh, as far as that goes, I quite agree with you, Miss Grey; I shouldn't care twopence myself about a seat in Parliament—a confounded bore, I think. But if you go in for playing a game, why, you ought to play it, you know."

"But are there not rules in every game? Are there not such things as fair and unfair?"

"Of course, yes; but I fancy the strong players generally make the rules to suit their own ideas in the end. Anyhow, I never heard of any one playing at electioneering who would have hesitated for a moment about accepting the hand I offered to our quixotic young friend."

"I am glad he is quixotic," Minola said eagerly. "I like to think of a man who ventures to be a Quixote."

"Very sorry to hear it, Miss Grey, for I am afraid you won't like much to think about me. Yet, do you know, I came here to make a sort of quixotic offer about this very election."

"I am glad to hear it; the more quixotic it is the more I shall like it. To whom is the offer to be made? To Mr. Heron?"

"Oh, no, by Jove!—excuse me, Miss Grey—nothing of the sort. The offer is to be made to you."

"To me?" Minola was a little surprised, but she did not color or show any surprise. She knew very well that it was not an offer of himself Mr. St. Paul was about to make, but it amused her to think of the interpretation Mary Blanchet, if she could have been present, would at once have put on his words.

"Yes, indeed, Miss Grey, to you. I have it in my power to make you returning officer for Keeton. Do you understand what that means?"

"I know in a sort of way what a returning officer is; but I don't at all understand how I can do his office."

"I'll show you. You shall have the fate of Keeton as much in your hands as if you owned the whole concern—a deuced deal more, in fact, than if you owned the whole concern, in days of ballot like these. I believe you do own a good many of the houses there now, don't you?"

"I hardly know; but I know that if I do, I wish I didn't."

"Very well; just you try what you can get out of your influence over your tenants—that's all."

"Then how am I to become returning officer for Keeton?"

"That's quite another thing. That depends on me."

"On you, Mr. St. Paul?"

"On me. Just listen." St. Paul had been seated in his favorite attitude of careless indolence in a very low chair, so low that his long legs seemed as if they stretched half way across the room. His position, joined with an expression of self-satisfied lawlessness in his face, might have whimsically suggested a sort of resemblance to Milton's arch fiend "stretched out huge at length," in one of his less malign humors. He now jumped up and stood on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fireplace, his slightly stooping shoulders only seeming to make him look taller than otherwise, because they might set people wondering as to the height he would have reached if he had only stood erect and made the most of his inches. His blue eyes had quite a sparkle of excited interest in them, and his prematurely bald forehead looked oddly infantine over these eyes and that keen, fearless mouth.

"Look here, Miss Grey, it's all in your hands. You know both these fellows, don't you?"

"Both what fellows?"

"These fellows who want to get in for Keeton. You know them both. Now which of them do you want to win?"

"What can it matter which way my wishes go—if they went any way?"

"How like a woman! How very like a woman!" and he laughed.

"What is like a woman? I know when a man says anything is like a woman, he means to say that it is ridiculous."

"Well, that's true enough; that is about what we do mean in most cases. What I meant in this case was only that you would not answer my question. I put a plain direct question, to which you must have some answer to give, and you only asked me a question in return which had nothing to do with mine."

"Perhaps I have no answer to give. I may have the answer in my own mind, and yet not have it to give to any one else."

"Oh, but you may really give it to me! In strictest confidence I assure you; no living soul shall ever know from me. Come, Miss Grey, let me know the truth. It can't possibly do you any harm—or anybody harm for that matter, except the wrong man for I take it for granted that the man you don't favor must be the wrong man."

"But I don't know that I ought to have anything to do with such a matter——"

"Never mind these scruples; it's nothing; there's to be no treason in the business, nor any unfair play. It's only this; I couldn't get in for the borough myself, even if I tried my best, but I can send in the one of the two whom I prefer—or, in this case, whom you prefer. I can do this as certainly as anything in this uncertain world can be certain."

"But how could that be?"

"That it would not suit me to tell you just at present. I know a safe way, that's all. In the teeth of the ballot I can promise you that. Now, Miss Grey, who is to have the seat?"

"Are you really serious in this, Mr. St. Paul?"

"As serious as I ever was in my life about anything—a good deal more serious, I dare say, than I often was about graver things and more important men. Now then, Miss Grey, which of these two fellows is to sit for Keeton?"

"But why do you make this offer to me?" she asked, with some hesitation. "What have I to do with it?" There was something alarming to her in his odd proposition, about which he was evidently quite serious now.

"Why do I make the offer to you? Well, because I should like to please you, because you are a sort of woman I like—a regular good girl, I think, without any nonsense or affectation about you. Now that's the whole reason why I offer this to you. I don't care much myself either way, except to annoy my brother, and that can be done in fifty other ways without half the trouble to me. I was inclined to draw out of the whole affair, until I remembered that you knew both the fellows, and I thought you might have a wish for one of them to go in in preference to the other—they can't both go in, you see—and so I made up my mind to give you the chance of saying which it should be. Now then, Miss Grey, name your man."

He put his hands into his pockets, and coolly waited for an answer. He had not the appearance of being in the least amused at her perplexity. He took the whole affair in a calm, matter-of-fact way, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Minola was perplexed. She did not see what right he could have to control the coming contest in any way, and still less, what right she could have to influence him in doing so. The dilemma was one in which no previous experience could well guide her. She much wished she had Mr. Money at hand to give her a word of counsel.

"Come, Miss Grey, make up your mind—or rather tell me what you have already made up your mind to, for I am sure you have not been waiting until now to form an opinion. Which of these two men do you want to see in Parliament?"

There did not seem any particular reason why Minola or any girl might not say in plain words which of two candidates she would rather see successful.

Mr. St. Paul appeared to understand her difficulty, for he said in an encouraging way—

"After all, you know, if you had women's rights and all that sort of thing, you would have to give your vote for one or other of these fellows, and I dare say you would be expected to take the stump for your favorite candidate. So there really can't be any very serious objection to your telling me in confidence which of the two you want to win."

Minola could not see how there could be any objection on any moral principle she could think of just then—being in truth a little confused and puzzled—to her giving a voice to the wish she had formed about the election.

"It's not the speaking out of my wish that gives me any doubt," she said; "it is the condition under which you want me to speak. I seem to be doing something that I have no right to do—that is, Mr. St. Paul, if you are serious."

"I remember reading, long ago," he said, "some Arabian Nights' story, or something of the kind, about a king, I think it was, who was brought at night to some mysterious place and told to cut a rope there, and that something or other would happen, he did not know what or when. The thing seemed very simple, and yet he didn't quite like to do it without knowing why, and how, and all about it. It strikes me that you seem to be in the same sort of fix."

"So I am; just the same. Why can't you tell me what you are going to do?"

"I like that! That is my secret for the present."

"And your king—the king in your story—did he cut the rope at last?"

"I am afraid I have forgotten that; but I have no doubt he did, for he was a reasonable sort of creature, being a man, and I know that everything came right with him in the end."

"Very well; I accept the omen of your king, and I too will cut the rope without asking why. Of course I wish that Mr. Heron should be elected. He is a Liberal in politics. Why do you laugh when I say that, Mr. St. Paul?"

"Well, I didn't know that you cared much for that sort of thing, and women are generally supposed to be reactionaries all the world over, are they not? Well, anyhow, that's one reason, his being a Liberal. What next?"

"I don't know that any next is wanting. But of course I think Mr. Heron is a much cleverer man, and is likely to be much better able to get on in the House of Commons; and then he has his complaint to make against the government——"

"Yes; and then?"

"Then he is very much liked by people whom I like—and I like him very much myself." Minola spoke out with perfect frankness, believing that that was the best thing she could do, and not showing the least sign of embarrassment.

Mr. St. Paul laughed.

"You don't like the other fellow so well?" he said.

"I am sure he is a very good man——"

"That's enough; you need not say another word. We all can tell what a critic means when he speaks of some actor as a careful and painstaking performer. It's just the same when a woman says a man is very good. Then you pronounce for Heron?"

"I pronounce for Mr. Heron decidedly, if you call saying what I should like to happen pronouncing for any one."

"In this case it is of more effect than many other pronunciamentos. You have elected Heron, Miss Grey, if I am not much more out in my calculations than I have been this some time. All right, I am satisfied. If you have money to throw away, just back what's-his-name?—Sheppard—heavily, and you are sure to get rid of it."

"And you won't tell me what all this means?"

"Not I indeed: not likely. Good day, Miss Grey. You have elected your friend Heron, I can tell you. Odd, isn't it, that he should come to be elected after all by me?"

He bade her good day again, and strode and shambled out of the room and down stairs, leaving Minola much perplexed, and not quite pleased, and yet full of a secret wonder and pride at the possibility of her having helped to do Mr. Heron a service.

"I wonder what he would say if he knew of it?" she asked herself, and she could hardly think that he would be greatly delighted with the promise of such influence.



The soul of Keeton, as a local orator expressed it, was stirred to its depths by the events which succeeded. The three estates of the town, whereof we have already spoken, were alike concerned in the election. Had it never occurred, there would have been enough in the death of Mrs. Saulsbury and the rearrangement of Mr. Grey's property to keep conversation up among the middle grade of Keeton folks. But business like that would not interest the park, and of course it had no interest for the working class of the town. The election, on the contrary, was of equal concern to park, semi-detached villa, and cottage, or even garret. A contest in Keeton was an absolute novelty, so far as the memory of living man could go back.

It may perhaps be said that the opinion of the class who alone concerned themselves about her affairs had been, on the whole, decidedly unfavorable to Minola. She had gone as a sort of rebel against legitimate authority out of Keeton, and had flung herself into the giddy vortex of London life. No one well knew what had become of her; and that with Keeton folks was another way of saying that she must have rushed upon destruction. Some persons held that she must have gone upon the stage. This idea became almost a certainty when a Keeton man, being in London on business, brought back with him from town a play-bill announcing a new opera bouffe in which one of the minor performers was named "Miss Mattie Grey." If the good Keeton man had only looked in a few other play-bills, he would have no doubt found Greys in abundance—Matties, Minnies, Nellies, and such like, Grey being rather a favorite name with young ladies in the profession. But he made no such investigation, and it was at once assumed that Mattie Grey was Minola Grey in disguise—a disguise as subtle as that of the famous knight, Sir Tristam, who, when he wanted to conceal his identity from all observers and place himself beyond all possibility of detection, called himself Sir Tramtrist.

When, however, it was found that Minola was to have her father's property after all, a certain change took place in the opinion of most persons who concerned themselves about the matter. It was assumed generally that Mr. Grey was far too good and Christian a man to have left his property to a girl who could be capable of acting in an opera bouffe. Then, when Miss Grey in person came to the town in the company of so distinguished a man as Mr. Money, even gossip started repentant at the sound itself had made, and began to deny that it had ever made any sound at all. Mr. Money was a sort of hero among the middle class everywhere. He was known to have fought his way up in life, and to be now very rich; and when Miss Grey came into the town in the company of Mr. Money and his daughter, the report went about forthwith that Minola Grey had got into the very best society in London, and that she was going to marry the eldest son of Mr. Money, and to be presented at court.

Mr. Money had taken a couple of floors of the best hotel to begin with. He had brought his carriage with him—a carriage in which he was hardly ever known to take a seat when in town. He had brought a sort of retinue of servants. He went deliberately about making what Mr. St. Paul would have called "a splurge." Mr. Money knew his Pappenheimers. He knew that he was well known to have sprung from nothing, but he also knew that the middle and lower classes of Keeton would have given him little thanks if he had tried to please them by exhibiting there a modesty becoming of his modest origin. He knew well enough that the more he put on display the more they would think of him and of his clients. Therefore he put on display like a garment—a garment to which he was little used, and in which he took no manner of delight. There was generally a little group of persons round the hotel doors at all hours of the day waiting to see Mr. Money and his friends go out or come in. At first Minola positively declined to go out at all, except at night; and the recent death of her father's widow gave her a fair excuse for remaining quietly indoors. Lucy delighted in the whole affair, and often declared that she felt as if she had been turned into a princess. When Mr. Heron came down he too seemed rather to enjoy it. At least he took it all as a matter of course. The experiences of colonial days, when the ruler of a colony, however small it may be, is a person of majestic proportions in his own sphere, enabled him to take Mr. Money's pomp quite seriously.

Meanwhile Mr. Augustus Sheppard had got his committee-rooms and his displays of various kinds, and was understood to be working hard. The election contest, so long looked for, had taken every one a little by surprise when it showed itself so near. It was natural that Mr. Sheppard and his friends should feel confident of the result. The retiring representative was now an old man. He had faithfully served out his time; he had always voted as his patrons wished him to do; he had never made a speech in the House of Commons; he had never, indeed, risen to his feet there at all, except once or twice to present a petition. The delights of a Parliamentary career were, therefore, this long time beginning to pall upon him. He had been notoriously anxious to get out of Parliament. He had been sent into the House of Commons by the late duke to keep the seat warm until the present duke should come of age. But the present duke succeeded to the peerage before he came of age, and therefore never had a chance of sitting in the House of Commons. The man in possession was allowed to remain there through years and years, until the present duke could be induced to return from abroad and take some interest in the political and other affairs of Keeton. His own son was yet too young for Parliament, and as the sitting member found himself getting too old and begged for release, there was nothing better to do than to get some safe and docile person to take on him the representation of the borough for some time to come. Those who knew Keeton could recommend no one more fitting in every desirable way than Mr. Augustus Sheppard.

The time was when Mr. Sheppard would only have had to present the orders of the reigning duke to the constituency of Keeton and to take his seat in the House of Commons accordingly as if by virtue of a sovereign patent in ancient days. But times had changed even in sleepy Keeton. The younger generation had almost forgotten their dukes, it was so long since a chief of the house had been among them. Even the women had grown comparatively indifferent to the influence of the name seeing that it had so long been only a name for them. There had been for many years no duchesses and their lady daughters to meet at flower-shows and charitable bazaars, by the delight of whose face, and the sound of whose feet, and the wind of whose tresses, as the poet has it, they could be made to feel happy and exalted. There once were brighter days when the coming and going of the ladies at the castle gave the women of Keeton a perpetual subject of talk, of thought, of hope, and of quarrel. Some of the readers of this story may perhaps have spent a little time in small towns on the banks of foreign—say of American—rivers which have a habit of freezing up as winter comes, and becoming useless for navigation; in fact being converted from rivers into great frozen roads, until spring unlocks the flowers and the streams again. Such travellers must have noticed what an unfailing topic of conversation such a river supplies to those who dwell on its banks. How soon will it freeze this season? On what precise day was it closed to navigation last year—the year before—the year before that? In what year did it freeze soonest? Do you remember that particular year when it froze so very soon, or did not freeze for such an unprecedented length of time? That was the same year that—no, not that year; it was the other year, don't you remember? Then follow contradictions and disputes, and the elders always remember the river having been regularly in the habit of performing some feat which now it never cares to repeat. The time of the frost melting and the river becoming really a river again is a matter just as fruitful of discussion. The stranger is often tempted to wonder what the people of that place would have to talk about at all if suddenly the river were to give up its trick of freezing, and were to remain always as fluent as our own monotonous Thames. There seems to him some reason to fear that the tongues of the people would become frozen as the river ceased to freeze.

Like the freezing and the melting of their river to those who lived on its bank was the annual visit of the ladies of the ducal family to the womankind of Keeton in Keeton's brighter days. Girls were growing up there now who had never seen a duchess. The arrival, the length of stay, the probable time of departure, the appearances in public whether more or less frequent than this time last year, the dresses worn by the gracious ladies, the persons spoken to by them, the persons only bowed to, the unhappy creatures who got neither speech nor salutation—it is a fact that there was a generation of women growing up in Keeton with whom these and such questions had never formed any part of the interest of their lives. They could not be expected to take much interest all at once, and as it were by instinct, in the political cause of the ducal family.

There was therefore a good deal of uncertainty about the conditions of the problem. The followers of the ducal family were some of them full of hope. The reappearance of a duke and duchess and their train might do wonders in restoring the old order of things. In Keeton petticoat influence counted for a great deal, and in other days those who had the promises of the wives hardly thought it worth while to go through the form of asking the husbands. But now there was a new condition of the political problem even in that respect. The ballot, which had made the voter independent of the influence of his landlord or his wealthy customer, had converted the power of the petticoat into a sort of unknown quantity. There could be little doubt that the moral influence and the traditional control would still prevail with some; but he must be a rash electioneering agent who would venture to say how many votes could thus be counted on. It is a remarkable tribute to the moral greatness of an aristocracy that the influence thus obtained in old days over the wives and daughters of Keeton was absolutely unearned by any overt acts of favor or conciliation. The later dukes and their families had always been remarkable for never making any advances toward the townspeople. None of the traders of the town, however wealthy and respectable, found themselves or their wives invited to any manner of festivity up at the ducal hall. All that the noble family ever did for the townspeople was to come at certain seasons to Keeton and allow themselves to be looked at. This was enough for the time. The illustrious ladies could be seen, and, as has been said, they did sometimes speak a word to favored and envied persons. They were loved for being great personages, not for anything they did to win such devotion. "Love is enough," says the poet.

All these considerations, however, rendered it hard to calculate the exact chances of opposition in the borough of Keeton. Of course revolutionary opinions were growing up, old people found, there as well as elsewhere. There was a new class of Conservatives springing up whom steady, old-fashioned politicians found it not easy to distinguish from the Radicals of their younger days. On the other hand, keen-sighted persons could not fail to perceive that, whereas in their youth almost all young men had a tendency to be or to fancy themselves Radicals, it was now growing rather the fashion for immature politicians to boast themselves Tories, and to talk of a spirited foreign policy and the dangers of Cosmopolitanism. It would be hard to say how things might turn out, knowing people thought, as they shook their heads, and hoped the expected contest might not come on for some time.

Now the contest was at hand. At least the sitting member had positively declared that he would sit no longer, and it was announced that the Duke was coming to Keeton, and that Mr. Augustus Sheppard was to be the Duke's candidate. No more striking proof could be given of the recent change in the political condition of Keeton than is found in the fact that the adoption of Mr. Sheppard as a candidate by the ducal family did not even to the most devoted and sanguine followers of the great house make Mr. Sheppard's election seem by any means a matter of absolute certainty. There was a tolerably strong conviction everywhere, long before any opposition was announced, that the Duke's candidate would not be allowed to walk over the course and right into the House of Commons this time. Nobody in the town would oppose the Duke very likely, but the man to oppose would come.

Now the man actually had come. Victor Heron had issued his address and was in Keeton. His address was original; he had positively refused from the first to make any grand professions of superior statesmanship or patriotism. He would tell Englishmen, he said, that he was seeking a seat in Parliament as a way of getting redress for a great wrong done to him, and through him to some of the principles most dear to the country. When he had fought his battle in Parliament and won or lost, he promised that he would then place himself in the hands of his constituents and resign the seat if they desired. The whole address was frank, odd, original, and perhaps seemed a little self-conceited. The author's absorption in his subject was mistaken by many people, as will happen sometimes, for self-conceit.

Mr. Sheppard's address, on the contrary, talked only of the good old Conservative principles which had made England the envy and admiration of all surrounding States; of the local interests of Keeton and the candidate's acquaintance therewith; and of the many splendid things done for the town by the noble family who had done it the honor to have a park there.

"I don't think Heron's address reads half badly," Mr. Money said, one evening in the absence of Heron, to his two companions; "on the whole, I shouldn't wonder if it took some people, the women particularly. Anything personal, anything in the nature of a grievance, is likely to have a good effect on many people, especially where the injured personage is young, and good-looking, and plucky. I wish the women had the votes here just for this once, for I think we should stand to win if they had."

"Then, papa, do you think we shan't win now?" Lucy asked.

Minola looked up eagerly for his answer.

"Well, Lucelet, I don't like to say; I am not quite charmed with the look of things. I find there are a good many very strong Radicals grown up in this place since there was a contest here before; and Heron's not wild enough for them by half. They are a little of the red-hot social-revolution sort of thing—the proletaire business, with a dash of the brabbling atheist—the fellows who think one is not fit to live if he even admits the possibility of another world. I am afraid these fellows will hold aloof from us altogether, or even take some whim of voting against us, and they may be strong enough to turn the scale."

Minola hoped that if her friend Mr. St. Paul had really any charm by which to extort victory for Heron as he had promised, he would not forget to use it in good time. But she began to have less faith, and less, in the possibility of any such feat. She was a little in the perplexed condition of some one of mediæval times, who has entered into a bargain for supernatural interference, and is not quite certain whether to wish that the compact may be really carried out or that it may prove to have been only the figment of a dream.

"I'm told we ought to have some poems done," Money went on to say. "Not merely squibs, you know, but appeals about right and justice, and the cause of oppressed humanity, and all that."

"I'm sure Minola could do some beautifully!" Lucy exclaimed, looking beseechingly toward her friend.

"Oh, no; I couldn't indeed! My appeals would be dreadfully weak; they could not rouse the spirits of any mortal creature. Now, if we only had Mary Blanchet!"

This, it must be owned, was Minola's fun, but it gave an idea to Mr. Money.

"Tell you what," he said; "we ought to have her brother—the bard you used to call him, Lucelet."

"Oh, no, papa; indeed I never called him anything of the kind. I never did, indeed, Nola."

"Well, whatever you called him, Lucelet, we can't do better than to have him. We'll put Pegasus into harness, by Jove—a capital good use to make of him too. I'll write to what's-his-name?—Blanchet—at once."

"But I don't think he would like it, papa; I think he would take offence at the idea of your asking him to do poems for an election. I don't think he would come."

"Oh, yes, he would come; we would make it worth his while. These young fellows give themselves airs to make you girls admire them, that they never think of trying on with men. It would be a rather telling thing here too if it got about that we had brought a real poet specially down from London. I'll write at once."

This seemed rather alarming to Minola.

"I doubt whether Mr. Heron would much like it," she pleaded. "I don't know whether they are such very good friends just now. I am rather afraid."

"Oh, yes; of course they must be good friends! Heron is not to have it all his own way in everything anyhow. He must like the idea; he shall. I'll write without telling him anything about it, and Heron couldn't help being friendly to any fellow who came under his roof, as one might say."

No one made any further objection.

"I wish Heron had not been so confoundedly particular about St. Paul," Mr. Money went on to say in a discontented tone. "That was absurd. St. Paul's no worse than lots of other fellows, and in such a thing as this we can't afford to throw away any offer of support. We have to fight against the Duke and his lot anyhow, and the help of St. Paul couldn't have done us any harm in that quarter, and it might have done us some good in others. I shouldn't wonder if St. Paul had some friends and admirers here still; and it is as likely as not that his being with us might conciliate a few of the mad Radicals. They might like him just because he is against his brother, the Duke."

"But Mr. Heron would not have such help as that," Lucy said, in tones of pride.

"Oh, by Jove! if you want to carry an election—and now, I suppose, if St. Paul has any influence at all, it will be given against us."

Minola thought of her unholy compact, and did not venture to say a word on the subject.



I spent seven years of my boyhood at school among the hills of old Connecticut, about fifteen miles back of Bridgeport, in a region even now in almost its primitive simplicity and pastoral beauty. It has been left quiet and untouched between the iron ways of Housatonic and Danbury, equidistant from both, and sufficiently far away from either to be free from the impulse and incentive of that practical missionary of modern progress, the railroad.

City born, but partly country bred, I understand well the sentiment of the New Englander for his old home, and often live over again the days in those familiar hills and valleys of Fairfield. I would revel in enjoyment if it were possible for me to revisit them. It was there my eyes were open to the delights of a "town muster," and my steps taught rhythm by fife and drum.

In occasional musings I hear the old music as it used to reach me in waves of sound, now faint, then loud, as the variable wind would waft it, or as it escaped from obstructing hills. And I see the tall white and red plume of the commandant, undulating with his stride, and dipping salutes to the wind. Reader, if you have never realized the excitement of a "general training day" in the country, you have missed the freshest and most genuine pleasure of youth.

In the fall of 1842 occurred the Croton water celebration, a real city holiday. The procession was long, interesting, and gorgeous, for all of it except the military portion was profusely decorated with autumn flowers, odorless but beautiful, rich in color and variety. It might properly have been called the feast of dahlias.

The old fire department was out in all its glory, and richly arrayed. It always took part in metropolitan rejoicings, heartily and generously. But my interest was centred in the soldiers; fired then by a longing to shoulder a musket. I waited impatiently for the freedom of manhood and a fitting opportunity. When both came I enlisted in a city regiment, and continued the connection till after the close of the late civil war.

Twenty years of service with musket and sabre failed to dull my enthusiasm. I left it, warned by the heaviness of approaching age and the demands of business, convinced of the propriety, the usefulness, and the value of a well regulated militia force.

Aware of how much has been said and written against such service, and of the misapprehension of those who had never studied its organization, its possibilities, and necessity, I propose to draw upon the practical experience of the past twenty-five years for the purpose of correcting wrong views without and suggesting new measures within. The service has been charged with costliness, uselessness, and pretentious display; with vain ambition, absence of organic purpose, and with being inimical to the morality of the individual member. All the charges have some foundation for their utterance, though the evils referred to are not the legitimate results of the organization, but rather the baleful fruit of irresponsible and ignorant commissions. The service is really worthy of conscientious labor and the support of the people.

In the present relations of government and society, a disciplined militia force is an essential part of the body politic, and an organism with vitality if properly administered. The central idea of the organization is a military body, directly from the people, for the conservation of governmental integrity and a protection to the State. Its collateral uses are an initial school for soldierly training, and in cities especially a supplementary and occasional aid to the police forces. In a general way the central idea is accepted, but in particulars is not carried out in equity between governments and the people. The theory is that the people are the State, and therefore must provide their own protection, but under proper authority. The authority exacts the service, at a great cost to the State, but denies reasonable compensation and encouragement to the individual member; therefore the people are not in sympathy with the organization. The service is brought in conflict with the people, in fact with itself, and the anomaly is presented of an organism in internal opposition. It is the duty of legislation and constituted authority to harmonize such an unnatural condition and change indifference into interest, ignorant neglect into intelligent support. Only in times of strife, like our late civil conflict, or the wars of 1812 and 1776, does the service rise to the dignity of an establishment and a recognized power. In times of peace it is permitted to exist, mainly in skeleton condition, without organic discipline, because the people have a false idea of its use and value. State military departments are not administered with intelligence, and military codes are subject to yearly legislative amendments without understanding; conditions of enlistment are altered, generally to the injury of the enlisted soldier, while recruiting for the uniformed corps languishes from lack of encouragement.

It is interesting to follow some of the changes of the New York State code and their inconsistent applications. For instance, when the law allowing relief from jury duty and the partial remission of assessment, to continue during life, was amended to cover terms of enlistment only, the Adjutant General of the State decided the amendments applied to prior enlistments, thereby breaking a contract between the State and enlisted men under the old law. But when the term of service was reduced from seven to five years, enlistments under the former law were held for the longer term. It is in such a spirit that all amendments are interpreted in favor of the State and against the individual. Fortunately the former provision has been reconsidered, and in a spirit of compromise relief from jury duty is reinstated in the code for life, but the abatement of assessments covers only terms of service. The State considers exemption from jury duty for life a relief, the nominal abatement of assessments during the service a benefit, and both together ample compensation to the militiamen. They would be in part, if immediately available, but the compensation is questionable, as the duty is generally performed too early in life for those legislative provisions to be of practical application. The abatement of an assessment is of little benefit to those who, probably, are without property till after their terms of service are completed, and the measure fails by limitation. Fortunately the relief from jury duty is a life provision, for it generally comes later in life, and after the militia service is performed. One does not, however, repay the cost of uniforms and other necessary expenses, nor the other compensate for the time which the service requires.

The New York State code says: "All able-bodied male citizens, between the ages of eighteen and forty-five, are subject to military duty," but also says that minors must obtain the written consent of parents or guardians to legalize an enlistment in a uniformed corps. Why such an incongruous distinction between uniformed corps and ununiformed militia? What right has the code to exact military service from a person who is condemned by the law as incompetent for citizenship, and is legally recognized by the law only as a child? And why exact military service from those who are in the decline of life? There are many who are physically able to do the duty under the age of twenty-one and over the age of forty, but they should be regarded as exceptional. Such service should be voluntary by the individual and optional with the State.

Spiritual, natural, and physical laws have stamped twenty-one the minimum age of manhood, and forty the culmination. Why should military law assume the power to control more?

The young absorb the elements of the future, the old dispose of them; within these life lines is practical manhood.

Patriotism enthusiastic becomes patriotism triumphant; during its passage the sentiment hardens into use.

Fault has been found by tax-payers with State and city governments for maintaining militia forces at such an expense. The censure is justified by the yearly exhibit of military expenditures, which is due in part to the unnecessary maintenance of skeleton regiments and battalions.

The prejudices of the people against soldiers in time of peace will never be overcome till they are educated to the necessity of a military establishment by intelligent administration of its affairs, proper information, greater proficiency, and a more decided application of its use. Satisfy the people of the necessity of the service, enlist their pride in its support by its efficiency, and its maintenance may be secured without opposition. People never grumble when they can see their money's worth.

If States have treated their militia forces as an inferior part of themselves, if military authorities have acted arbitrarily and ungenerously, militiamen themselves are not blameless. They have frittered away their opportunities, and belittled their profession, by vain-glory and personal ambition, and invited censure by inefficient service. Fortunately there are men and officers, companies and regiments, who, recognizing their mission, have conscientiously performed their duty and redeemed the service from greater obloquy. Their work has acted like leaven to the whole body. All honor to them for their intelligence, honest pride, and patriotic labor.

The "uniformed militia" system has a foundation of inherent strength capable of being built upon and extended to a perfectness not at present thought capable of. With its present incompleteness, its degree of usefulness is positive, and even under all the adverse circumstances referred to the condition of ably administered battalions bears upon the side of success and prosperity. Singular as it may seem, part of its weakness is from its own elements of apparent strength.

Recruits enlist with a very inadequate idea of its requirements. Many go through their term of service, sometimes pleased, oftener bored, but always with a sense of personal importance, and take their discharge with feelings of relief.

Some members are guilty of license when in uniform that they would not indulge in as citizens. Officers without capacity accept commissions and occasionally intrigue for command, from ambition and vanity, without a sense of their responsibility or a proper knowledge of their duties. There are also elements of disorder within the lines of duty which are hard to bear and difficult to control, because they arise from personal animosities. The judgment of an officer is warped to his hurt by his selfishness, wounded pride, and ambition, who will hold a commission to the injury of his company or battalion, even with the support of part of his command.

Is it to be wondered at that an organization with such elements of disorder in it should be regarded with disfavor by those ignorant of its trials, its duties, and its aims? And is it not an argument in its favor that its discipline is able to control and surmount such demoralizing tendencies?

It is not pleasant to deprecate a continuation of long services, but under certain circumstances it may result in injury to a corps. Officers of merit and distinction, with the personal veneration of their men, have been known to outlive their usefulness by retention of command after the freshness, activity, and judgment of their earlier manhood have departed. The idiosyncrasies of age and confirmed habits of authority do not readily accept advanced ideas, improvements in methods, and the inevitable changes of time.

Recruiting for uniformed corps has been and is a process without a system—a method without a principle; it is simply a necessity. As conducted at present it is derogatory to the dignity of the service, and in its practice humiliating and unpleasant to its members. The code really offers no inducement to militiamen.

Its failure to provide proper encouragement for recruiting is a defect which should have the serious consideration of military authorities and legislators at the earliest opportunity. It is a matter of vital importance to the service, and forces itself upon the attention of all commandants to their great concern.

It seems as though battalions are expected to perpetuate themselves, and they have to be, by force of circumstances, recruiting organizations for the State.

Personal application and argument have to take the place of official encouragement, and a service whose necessity, propriety, and benefits should be patent to all is left in a measure to factitious circumstances for a support. It is not, however, the sole purpose of this paper to cavil at authority, to criticise military codes, or condemn existing methods, but rather to show how the uniformed militia forces can be better rewarded by proper recognition and acknowledgment, and made more honorable by a higher standard of service. The indifference of the world and the early hostility of the church to amusements were fatal blunders which both have ascertained, and are now atoning for generously, but too thoughtlessly. Opposition has become permission without proper direction, and indiscriminate pleasure anticipates regulated and orderly recreation. This is a question of as great importance to the State as to society, of as vital interest to the church, as of welfare to the individual. Every care should be taken to recognize as orderly only those pleasures which have their foundation in use.

In every community, between the extremes of the artisan, who is almost precluded from the continuous and regular duties of a militiaman, by his occupation and necessities, and the student, who is generally unfitted for them by his intellectual preoccupation, is a numerous class, for whom the service is eminently adapted. Their inclination for occasional relief from business and clerical labors is a proper desire, and should not be permitted to degenerate into undisciplined sport for want of a legitimate pastime.

The militia service, on a peace footing, is really a recreation, with an object and an organization of the most singular merit. Its system of physical training is superior to the abnormal development of the gymnasium, the fitful excitement of the ball-field, the constrained pull and single purpose of the oar, and the violent termination of a "shell" race. Its normal object, military training, is exacting, methodical, and thorough, and moral force of character, self-reliance, discipline of the mind, and knowledge of human nature are collateral results of company and battalion associations. There is an element of possible strength to the militia forces of the several States, which may have been thought of, but never utilized. I refer to the youth in every community who are old enough to be free from the constant necessity of elementary study and relieved from the absorbing application of higher educational branches, who are yet at school, but with sufficient leisure to do well or ill—that age between the watchful eye of maternal care and later parental authority: inchoate manhood, rough, awkward, and susceptible; wild with their first taste of liberty; full of anticipation and courageous in the future. The struggle between them and society for a place is long and doubtful. The State should adopt and help them by recognizing a cadet system to be attached to the uniformed corps, whose officers could inaugurate no wiser, more charitable, or more popular measure than to accept their services. The measure of good to the boy and the measure of benefit to the service would be reciprocal and incalculable. The cadet would take to the "school of the soldier" with enthusiasm. It would give him something proper to do, something right to think of; it would perfect his growing physique with grace, and engraft on his system the elements of manhood.

To all graduating classes in school, a membership in a cadet corps would be an incentive, and school commissioners could make such membership a reward of merit.

It would relieve the service from the present unpleasant feature of recruiting by keeping behind it a subordinate corps of well-drilled young soldiers from which its ranks could be kept full. It would relieve officers from the drudgery of squad-drills, and give the service the full time of their men instead of wasting six, perhaps more, months in the present recruit classes. It would also perfect the enlisted men and subordinate officers for their prospective duties by detailing them for detached service in cadet corps, in grades next higher than their own. Such detached service would be an honor and a prime incentive for all subordinate officers.

The uniformed militia system has been the growth of years upon the single theory of a military power direct from the people. Whatever merit has been developed in its practice is intrinsic, and has been brought to the surface by force of circumstances rather than by encouragement or appreciation. Upon the minimum basis of inherent value can be constructed a maximum power of State economy, by honoring the service with an establishment of intelligence and efficiency. Make the uniformed corps to the State and to the militia forces, in a comparative, what the West Point Academy is to the United States and to the regular army in a superlative degree.

I have treated militia service thus far as a recreation, because the members of uniformed corps have made it so. I will now refer to it as a duty, and endeavor to show how the service can be adjusted to the greater benefit of the State and be made of greater use to the people.

Declare all male citizens between the ages of twenty-one and forty subject to military duty as ununiformed militia, to be enrolled and brigaded, but kept immobile except for emergencies, to be officered when necessary from the subordinate officers of the uniformed corps.

The object of enrollment is twofold: to ascertain the available force of the State, and for the purpose of special taxation, to reimburse the State for military expenditures.

Eliminate all extrinsic material from the present force; disband skeleton battalions; make supernumerary their officers; reduce the force to the efficient corps now existing, or which may have to be organized, in place of ineffective ones, for the purpose of creating normal schools for military instruction. Never call out an ununiformed battalion in time of peace, or put a uniformed corps in the field in time of war; consider them component and interchangeable parts of one system. In active service let the former be the lungs and the latter the heart of a vital organism.

In no instance should a normal battalion be disbanded for the purpose of officering ununiformed corps, but should be kept intact with its field officers and company commandants—a kind of Gatling educational battery for the propulsion of brains. It would be just as sensible to put the West Point cadets in the field as a fighting corps as to put some of our best regiments. Their heads are worth more to the country than their bodies.

I have suggested special taxation of the enrolled militia to reimburse the State for its military expenditures. It can probably be collected more expeditiously and with less expense through a special department of the Commissioner of Jurors than through any other channel. It is now necessary for the Commissioner to keep lists of jurors and register all exempts, and the plan would certainly aid him in those duties of his department by giving him a fuller and more correct canvass of citizens.

The encouragement needed to induce men and officers to spend their leisure hours for ten years in these normal battalions is to void the present remission of assessment, as an inequitable provision—reimburse them for clothing, relieve them from jury duty for life, and exempt them from any possible future draft. With their discharges give the men sergeants' warrants, non-commissioned officers lieutenants' commissions, and advance officers' commissions one grade, waiting papers for possible future services. Furnish comfortable and substantial drill-rooms and armories, and reimburse battalions for proper musical expenditures.

The State should hold itself responsible to the general Government for its officers who may be touched by a draft and furnish the necessary substitutes as compensation in part for their former and prospective services.

Experience furnishes proof that well made, good-fitting clothing, stylish, but not extravagant, is much better and cheaper than the low-priced, ugly State uniforms, ground out by contract, allotted by sizes, and fitting by chance. There is no economy in the joint ownership of a uniform; the nominal owner is niggardly in purchase and the wearer careless in use. Let the uniform be chosen by corps, made in accordance with regimental bills of dress, by individual measure, and let the State reimburse the corps by a liberal commutation. To reimburse battalions for their music may seem a costly item—it certainly is a great expense to the present uniformed corps—but as the project is based upon the idea of a self-supporting establishment, there is no injury to the State; a nominal tax paid by the enrolled ununiformed militia should be sufficient to pay the entire expenditures of the State military department.

To honor discharged men and officers with a kind of brevet commission would be an incentive for ability and efficiency, and would be of sufficient value to invite the best class of young men to the ranks. Whatever may be questionable in the action of Congress for reducing the force of the regular army, there can be none in the policy of the State for reducing its force to the lowest possible point. Every man should be released from the ranks that can be, both in justice to himself and for general industrial effect. The cost of company drills, regimental brigade and division parades in time and money is immense, and out of all proportion to the doubtful value of such services, constituted as the force is. But a compact, thoroughly disciplined, and perfectly drilled force, of the highest obtainable military character, is necessary and should be well maintained for contingent purposes.

I have thrown out these views as applicable to the city and State of New York; but the ideas can be applied to the military department of every State, with such modifications as may be found necessary.

It would be expensive, impolitic, and unnecessary for the general Government to keep a regular army, through years of peace, of sufficient numerical force to meet successfully internal outbreaks or external pressure. The militia force should be trained to be the supporting power of the army for such contingencies. The doubts and fears and awful suspense of the people during the early days of the late rebellion would have been greatly lessened, perhaps quite avoided, had the regular and militia forces been in effective readiness for the struggle, and met the necessity of the hour. The uniformed corps could have been ordered to the front for temporary defence, as some were, and time given for mobilizing the ununiformed troops.

As it was all was confusion, distrust, and almost despair; only for the instinctive loyalty and inherent courage of the people, all would have been lost. The men of the first levy, the rank and file, were magnificent in material, confident in ability, honest in purpose, crude in development, difficult to discipline—it was hard for them to come under military law. Many of their officers were adventurers without experience or qualifications for command. They obtained commissions through personal influence rather than by merit. Militia officers, with all their imperfections, would have been of much greater service.

Is the affair of Bull Run to be wondered at, with such material, and in the light of later education? It was the incisive action of the war; it punctured the conceit of both armies.

C. H. Meday.



T he shadows were lying tolerably long on the green hillsides when the lumbering yellow stage, somewhat the worse for wear, drawn by four lean, dusty horses, also somewhat the worse for wear, drew up with a grand flourish in front of the Grand Hotel, Mariposa.

It was a long, low building, with a broad piazza in front and along one side; the façade was painted a dingy yellow to match the stage apparently, but the rest of the edifice had been neglected, and the superabundant rain and superabundant sunshine of Mariposa had left marks of their handiwork on the bare boards.

The loungers rushed out of the bar-room as soon as the wheels were heard, and stood grouped about the broad piazza exchanging jokes with the driver, who was known as Scotty, and asking the news from Hornitos and other way places.

Meanwhile the "Doctor," a stout, ruddy-complexioned man, whose appearance spoke well for his profession, descended from his seat on the box, and, opening the stage door with an air of pride and satisfaction, he assisted the one lady passenger to alight with a grace which would have done credit to Chesterfield. The loungers on the piazza started and drew back. All ceased their gibes with Scotty, and two or three removed their hats. She was not only a woman, but a very pretty woman—she was even beautiful.

She thanked the Doctor with a pretty grace, and turned her clear, hazel eyes upon the admiring group, scanning each face eagerly and wistfully. The Doctor said, "Allow me," and was about to escort her into the small den at one side known as the "Ladies' parlor," but she swept past him and walked straight into the bar-room, the Doctor, the loafers, and Scotty crowding in after her and regarding her movements with an undisguised admiration, and as much reverential curiosity as though she had been a visitant from another sphere.

The proprietor of the "Grand" was a podgy man, with an aggressively bald head and scaley eyes like an alligator's—though for that matter I may be libelling the alligator. His name was Sharpe, commonly corrupted into "Cutey" by some mysterious process.

He was pouring whiskey from a bottle into a glass, preparatory to serving himself, when the new comer walked—she walked like an angel—straight up to him and said, "Is this the landlord?"

Cutey was so astonished by the apparition that he dropped the glass—he called it a glass; it was in reality a stone-china cup about half an inch thick—and wasted the whiskey; it was only by the greatest presence of mind that he succeeded in saving the bottle.

"Ma-a-a'm?" he stammered, clutching at his bald head to see if there was a hat there.

The woman repeated her question; the crowd by the doorway, headed by the Doctor, strained their ears to listen. She had a low voice, tolerably sweet. Such music had never before been heard within those low walls, perhaps. They wished she would say more. Old "Punks" muttered that she 'minded him of his Lyddy—"jest sech a voice!" which remark brought down upon him much contumely afterward, and a threat from the Doctor to "put daylight through him." After a helpless look around him, Cutey admitted that he was the landlord, with the air of a cornered scoundrel confessing a crime.

"Then perhaps you can tell me what I wish to know," said the woman, fixing her clear, sweet eyes upon him. "I want to find a man named Wilmer—James Courtney Wilmer."

Cutey shook his head sorrowfully.

"Thar be so many names," said he: "skurce any man goes by his own name. Be he livin' in Mariposa, ma'am?"

"I do not know," was the reply, with a suggestion of tears in the voice, at which every heart in the crowd by the door was touched and unhappy.

Punks nudged Scotty with his elbow.

"What's that fellow's name that wus partners with Circus Jack in the Banderita?" he whispered.

Scotty rapped his forehead with his horny hand, and ran his fingers into his bushy, tow-colored hair, with a clutch of desperation.

"Punks," he whispered, "I allers counted you a fool, but you ain't; you air a shinin' light! His name wus Jim Wilmer."

Then, coloring up to the roots of his hair, he advanced and said:

"If you please, ma'am."

The woman turned at this, meeting a whole battery of eyes without any seeming consciousness of it.

"There wus a feller named Jim Wilmer here—wus partners in the Banderita, with a feller named Circ—leastways, I don't know his name, but we called him Circus Jack, ma'am."

The woman's face—her beautiful face—turned as white as the collar at her throat; she leaned against the bar and tried to speak, but the words died on her lips.

Finally, with an effort, she half whispered:

"Do you know where he is now?"

Then, as the men looked at each other, she cried in a clearer tone, "Is he dead?"

"No, no, ma'am. He wus here, 'taint a month," said Scotty. "I think he's off huntin' in the hills. I'll find Circus Jack, and bring him up here. He'll be likely to know—him and Jim wus real good friends."

"Thank you," said the stranger softly, in a voice which smote Scotty's heart exceedingly.

The Doctor, meanwhile, had gone for Mrs. Sharpe, who presently entered, and invited the stranger to "hev a little tea."

She was a small fair woman, with a washed-out look, and a mouth not innocent of dipping, but she looked and spoke kindly, and the stranger was glad enough to answer, "Yes," and follow her into the dining-room. The crowd fell back as she approached, but only enough to give her room to pass. Some stealthily touched her dress as she swept by them, and when she had disappeared, and the door had closed, forty tongues were loosed at once, and a scene of excitement ensued only equalled by the one which followed on the shooting of "the Judge" by "Little Jack," over a game of poker, in that very bar-room of the Grand Hotel.

"Mought I ax your name, ma'am?" inquired Mrs. Sharpe.

"Marian Kingsley," was the faint reply.

"Miss or Mrs., ma'am?" pursued Mrs. Sharpe, glancing at the shapely, white, ringless hands.

The stranger gave a slight impatient twitch. "It doesn't matter," she said. "Call me Marian. That will do as well as anything."

Mrs. Sharpe was a washed-out woman. Many of the natural and laudable instincts remained, perhaps being fast colors; but a horror of the class to which she now supposed Marian to belong was one which had faded out of her nature. She gave a slightly supercilious look, which fell upon the woman like moonlight on ice, and pursued her inquiries.

"Came from 'Frisco?"

"I came through there. I didn't see anything of the place."

"Whar did yer come from?"

"Philadelphia." The tone was changed. She evidently felt the impalpable rudeness of the faded woman, and knew how to resent it in the same way. More conversation ensued, in the course of which Mrs. Sharpe discovered that Marian had a little money—enough to pay her board for a few months—and that she had come there to find "James Courtney Wilmer."

Mrs. Sharpe had information to give as well as to take, for she knew something of Jim.

"We called him Jim," she said, a little scornfully. "He didn't git no 'Courting' from we."

Poor Marian gave a faint smile. "There might be other James Wilmers," she said. "I wanted to be sure."

Mrs. Sharpe didn't think this could be the one.

"He's a rough, ragged creeter," she said, "and 's had the snakes fur weeks at a time."

Marian shrank and cowered at this, with a pitiful look of pain on her beautiful face.

"Hed money left him?" asked Mrs. Sharpe.

Marian nodded.

"'Twon't do him no good. Soon as he hearns of it, he'll drink himself into snakes. Allers did when they struck a good lead on the Banderita. Circus Jack, he loses all hisn's at poker; so thar they go."

In the course of an hour Circus Jack, scrubbed and "fixed up" to a degree which made him almost unrecognizable by his comrades, appeared, escorted by Scotty, also prepared by a choice toilet to enter the presence of "the ladies."

"'Scuse my not comin' afore," said Scotty. "Hosses must be 'tended to, and them of mine wus about dead beat."

Marian smiled graciously, if absently, and turned her clear, hazel eyes to Circus Jack, who, with many excuses, circumlocutions, and profane epithets, most of which he apologized for instantly, and some of which he was evidently unconscious of, gave her all the information in his power in regard to the man she had come to find.

No one in Mariposa knew him better. As "Jim" he was almost an integral part of the city of "Butterflies." The butterflies, by the by, for which the town is named, are not those which soar in the air, but "Mariposas," fastened by long, tough filaments to the ground.

Many a night had Jim Wilmer crushed his swollen face into them, and slept a drunken sleep with their soft wings folded sorrowfully above him.

There was something of a mystery hung about him, which the "boys" had never been able to fathom. Some said that he belonged to a wealthy and aristocratic family, and had left home and become a wanderer and an outcast, because some beautiful woman had jilted him; others said that he had had a wife and children, that he had broken his wedded faith and his wife's heart at the same time, and that a grim phantom followed him wherever he went, and gave him no peace. Others told yet another story: that he had been engaged to a beautiful girl, and had loved her and trusted her above all telling; that his wedding day was near, when he had stumbled upon some miserable secret, which was dead and buried, but could not rest in its grave; that there was no room left for doubt, which is sometimes blessed, and he had fled without a word; disappeared, and left to her own wretched heart the task of telling her the reason why.

Circus Jack did not tell Marian these stories, though he had heard them all; indeed, they had all been retold and discussed in the bar-room, not half an hour since. An average woman would have repeated them to her, and thus tempted her to reveal the truth; but a chivalrous heart beat under Jack's flannel shirt, and he could no more bear to hurt her than he could have crushed a little bird to death with his hand.

If any of the stories were true, and she yet loved poor Jim, he told her enough to wring her heart and haunt her dreams for ever.

The winter that he spent in the hollow of a great pine tree, on the rim of Yosemite valley, was perhaps his happiest and most peaceful. Every Yosemite tourist stops to peep inside this tree, and to wonder if a man really lived there. "It was comfortable enough," says the hale old pioneer of the valley below. "He had plenty of room. We both slept in it one night."

At which the tourist peeps in again, and wonders if the long-limbed Texan was not a bit cramped by the footboard.

When Circus Jack told Marian the story it was fresher and less wonderful than now.

"Was the snow very deep?" she said. "Was there no danger of his freezing to death?"

"I never hearn much about it anyhow," said Circus Jack, "'cept thet he lived thar alone cuttin' shingles. I 'spect the snow was 'bout four or five foot deep up thar whar he lived. He's a close-mouthed one, I tell yer. Never git nothin' outer him, an' when he's drunk he don't tell nothin' whatsomd-ever!"

This, with a glance half pitying, half reassuring, as though he would promise her that the secret, whatever it might be, was safe.

One comforting doubt beat at the woman's heart all the while that Jack was talking. "Perhaps this man was not the one!"

She mentioned this at length, and asked Jack what his quandom "partner" was like.

"He was a slight-built feller, rayther light-complected," was the reply. "An' han'some! I called him han'some, didn't you, Scotty?"

Scotty, thus appealed to, gave a profane assent. He had scarcely moved a muscle since he sat down, with his eyes fixed on Marian's fair, ever-changing face. Mrs. Sharpe, after a vain attempt to engage him in conversation, had quietly withdrawn, having no relish for being one of a quartette where two did all the talking.

"Was he—an—educated man?" inquired Marian hesitatingly, feeling in a vague way that the question might offend Jack.

"Yes, he war," replied that worthy in a contemplative tone. "When he war drunk I hev hearn him talkin' a lot of stuff like po'try. Thar's a pile of books in my cabin now that he used ter read consid'able. I can't make head nor tail to 'em. P'r'aps you might."

"I would like to see them," said Marian eagerly.

Jack nodded, and a pause ensued. At length Scotty remarked that the "old man," meaning Cutey, was "reyther late in lightin' up," at which Jack arose and bade the stranger "good night."

Marian put out her hand, saying, "We will be good friends, I hope."

Circus Jack took it by the finger tips cautiously, careful not to hurt it with his horny fingers.

"I'll do ary thing in the world fur yer, madam," he replied earnestly and ingenuously.

"There was one thing I wished to ask," she said, "though it may be a foolish question. Did you ever notice any—ring—that he wore or—carried?"

"They wus a ring, but I'm beat ef I kin tell what kind. Once when Jim was turrible sick, an' his hand swelled up, I wanted to file it off, but he fought so I couldn't. He said when he got well thet it never had ben off, nor never shouldn't be while he had life to fight."

"Can't you tell me what it was like?" she asked.

"I ain't no hand," said Circus Jack, rubbing his head. "I'd know it ef I seed it, but——"

"Was it like this?" She drew a dainty purse from her pocket, and took from its safest corner a plain, flat band of gold, with a small disk on it, shaped like the half of a heart placed horizontally.

"Prezactly!" exclaimed Circus Jack with emphasis.

She opened her purse to put it back, but it fell from her hand, scattering her little stock of money over the floor, and a moment after, when Mrs. Sharpe came in, in response to frantic halloos from Scotty, she found Marian in a dead faint upon the floor, with Scotty and Circus Jack, with hands clasped behind them, kneeling on either side of her like uncouth angels, while scattered coins and escaping masses of golden-brown hair formed a halo about her head.

She was ashamed of and provoked at her weakness afterward; said she was fatigued with her long and wearisome ride, and that she never fainted before; but if she had been an accomplished diplomatist, she could have planned nothing better for her popularity.

As for the faded-out woman, her opinion, which had been tottering under a severe reproof from Cutey, now underwent a complete revolution.

"Them kind never faints!" she said to herself dogmatically, as she assisted Marian to her room and begged her to "take things easy like." She patiently answered one hundred and seven inquiries that evening, varying from, "How's the sick lady?" to, "Jim Wilmer's gal perking up a little arter her faint?" and for the rest of Marian's stay in Mariposa she proved that kindliness of heart had been one of the "fast colors."

It was but natural that Cutey should feel a friendly interest, since he dealt out at least two hundred extra drinks, at highly remunerative prices, on her account that evening; and moreover, the Doctor "tipped" him handsomely for extra care and attention. In a week after her arrival, Marian had learned all that anybody in Mariposa knew regarding "Jim." She wore that curious ring upon her finger now. There were two letters upon the disk, but no one ever had the hardihood to ask what they were.

Punks, whose eyes were keen, and whose curiosity was keener, declared that they were "i l," with a "little quirl-like" between.

Punks also knew—a fact which did credit to his powers and habits of observation—that on the disk of the ring which Jim wore on his little finger were the letters "Fa."

Punks desired to know what "Fail" spelled but "fail." He further inquired "what they wanted to hev sech a doggoned mis'able word as thet on a ring fur?"

"'T'orter be 'love' or sunthin'," he added critically.

It was only after much questioning in divers places, and the exercise of a deal of patience and some finesse, that Marian learned the present whereabouts of the half-crazed hermit "all unblessed." When last seen, something less than a week before her arrival, he had been wandering through the neighboring mountains, half-clothed in wretched rags, living on berries and roots, alternately muttering and shrieking the vagaries of his unhinged mind.

They were loth to tell her, even those who knew it. Their rude externals seemed to have made their hearts softer. It hurt them to see the pink color fade from her cheeks, and the shadow of sharp pain creep over her beautiful face; so she had to learn the lesson of smiling when her heart ached worst. The two Mexicans, cattle herders, who had seen him, were eagerly questioned; but they could tell nothing that she did not know, save that they were quite sure that it was Jim, and not some other unfortunate, whom they had seen.

They gave a stupid assent when asked by Marian to secure him and bring him into town the next time that they saw him; and a "Si, Señor," considerably less stupid in a subsequent private interview with Jack, who promised them "heap money" for their labor.

Marian had the books which Jim had left in the cabin: commonplace Greek and Latin books, which might have belonged to anybody, save that on one fly leaf was written in a scrawling hand, "J. C. Wilmer," and this yellow page, and this faded ink, she covered with her kisses and baptized with her tears. And another weary week crept by.

The Doctor noticed with disapprobation strongly expressed how pale and worn-looking the pretty woman grew. Not professionally; indeed, his title was merely honorary, bestowed in recognition of his services in prescribing the "Golden Anti-bilious Pills" for Bob Jinks, which, or nature in spite of them, had effected a cure, and restored to bereft Mariposa society an efficient and valuable member.

The Doctor's interest afforded considerable amusement to the habitués of the "Grand" bar-room, and they fairly roared with sympathy when he profanely expressed his sorrow to see her wasting her beauty in tears over "another feller."

One Saturday night, two weeks and a day since Marian's arrival, the whole population of the town were at the Grand, either drinking, gambling, or purchasing provisions of Cutey's deputy, who presided over the tin can department with activity and grace; and all, whatever their occupation, were swearing vigorously and unceasingly.

Marian sat up stairs in her tiny room burning with feverish anxiety. Her long years of home-waiting, the comfortless journey, even the first week of uncertainty, had been easier to bear than this anxious waiting. The Mexicans had not hesitated to say that he must be dead by this time; but that she did not believe; he might be starving, crazed, nearly dead, but surely she might see him once more and hear him say that he forgave her; perhaps even nurse him back to reason and health and hope again.

The brawling and laughter down stairs made her shudder. "If I was only a man!" she whispered fiercely, clenching her little hands. "Can I do nothing but sit here and wait? Oh, God, be merciful!" she cried.

Then suddenly a thought flashed into her mind. She did not stop to think of it; she acted upon it.

The Doctor's partner, profoundly studying his cards, was somewhat disconcerted to see the table kicked over, and the Doctor's "hand" on the floor. Without a question, he put his hand back for his pistol, when the sudden stillness in the room caught his attention, and all that followed caused him to forget the affront.

In the centre of the room, her disordered hair flying about her face, her clear eyes flashing with excitement, her cheeks flaming with color, more beautiful than they had ever seen her look before, Marian stood waiting for silence. Men crowded up to the doorways and filled the windows, certain from the sudden quiet that "something was up."

"Won't you help me?" she cried out. "What can I do to find him? He may be starving to death! He would not have left you to starve! You"—she gasped and drew her breath hard—"you—whom he was good to—you remember—a hundred things, but you forget him! and let him—rave his life away—and starve to death—alone." She choked. She could not speak another word! but she stood with her lips parted, her eyes flashing, looking eagerly, almost angrily, from one face to another.

Circus Jack bounded on to a table; it was rickety, and reeled with his weight; but Punks and Bob Jinks steadied it; they were friends of Jack's; besides, they had just won from him at poker, and felt very friendly. "Fellers!" said Jack, "to-morrow's Sunday. I'm going out ter hunt fer poor Jim, and ain't comin' back till I find him. Them as wants ter 'comp'ny me kin call at my cabin to-night."

"I will go with you, Jack," said the Doctor impressively.

"Me, too, you bet!" cried Scotty.

"Count me in," growled a bass voice from the window.

"Me too," squeaked Punks. "All as'll go say, 'Ay!'"

And an "Ay!" came from those rough voices with such a ringing burst of good will as must have startled the very birds asleep in the distant trees.

Nay! some faint echo of it may have been heard at the very gates of heaven itself. The tears rolled down Marian's cheeks. She tried to say, "God bless you!" but the tears had the right of way, and the words broke into something unintelligible.

A sudden shame came over them that they had not thought of this before. Memories of homes, of mothers, of wives, came knocking at their hearts, and would not be denied. The sleeves of rough and not over clean flannel shirts were drawn across eyes that had scorned tears, through sickness, discomfort, and disappointment.

Cutey came to the rescue.

"Gentlemen!" he said, waving his hand over the bar, "help yourselves. My j'ints are stiff, and I can't go; but I'll treat the crowd. Free drinks, gentlemen!"

And leaving his bar to the tender mercies of his thirsty friends, Cutey offered his arm to Marian, and escorted her to her own door, where he took leave of her with a low bow.

Then he went down stairs four steps at a time, lest his choice liquors should be annihilated in his absence.

It was Monday noon when they returned. Marian sat at the window in the easiest chair the house afforded, sickening with fever. She watched them coming into town with a restless, helpless anxiety. She watched them scatter to their cabins, and saw Circus Jack coming on toward the hotel alone.

She buried her face in her hands. He had said that he would never come back until he found him. Had they become discouraged, or——

She could not believe that they had found him. Her heart seemed to cry out, "No! no!" Jack came up, with little Mrs. Sharpe at his heels.

"Be keerful!" said the faded woman. "She mighty poorly."

Jack came in as lightly as his heavy boots would allow.

"The boys said fur me ter tell yer they wus all dretful sorry fur yer. We buried him jist whar we found him. He'd a ben dead nigh on to a couple of weeks, I reckon. Don't yer look so, lady. Poor Jim! he warn't never happy, even when he was drunk. He's better off up thar. We flung a few stones together to mark the place, and I'll guide you and Mrs. Sharpe thar any time."

Then, lowering his voice to a whisper, he added tenderly, "And I tuk the ring offen his finger. He couldn't fight fur it now; an I thought as mebby you'd like it."

He took it from the corner of his handkerchief; she held up her finger for it, and he slipped it on. Then he saw that the letters spelled "Faith." "Thet Punks!" he thought to himself contemptuously.

She looked up into his face with a stony smile—no tears now.

"Thank you," she said.

Four weeks afterward the Doctor lifted Marian into the stage. She was strong enough for her journey now, she said. Two days before she had visited the lonely cairn. It was a tiresome horseback ride too. She seemed to be getting well very fast. The Doctor told her so.

"People never die when they wish to," she answered sadly.

Circus Jack came to the stage-door to bid her "Good-by."

"What can I do for you to thank you?" she asked earnestly.

Jack hesitated.

"Ef you wouldn't mind, ma'am," he said, "I'd like—to—kiss your hand. I've got a dear old mother home—ef you wouldn't mind!"

Without a blush or a change of countenance she put her arm around his neck and kissed his lips.

"Good-by, dear old fellow," she said.

Then Scotty cracked his whip, the crowd on the piazza raised their hats—even the poor, chagrined Doctor—a subdued cheer was given, and the lumbering stage disappeared in a cloud of dust, the nodding mariposas on the hillside looking curiously at it as it went by.

Clara G. Dolliver.



Not they who know the awful gibbet's anguish,

Not they who, while sad years go by them, in

The sunless cells of lonely prisons languish,

Do suffer fullest penalty for sin.

'Tis they who walk the highways unsuspected,

Yet with grim fear for ever at their side,

Who clasp the corpse of some sin undetected,

A corpse no grave or coffin lid can hide.

'Tis they who are in their own chambers haunted

By thoughts that like unwelcome guests intrude,

And sit down uninvited and unwanted,

And make a nightmare of the solitude.

Ella Wheeler.



I t had been known for some time that M. Paul de Musset was preparing a biography of his illustrious brother, and the knowledge had been grateful to Alfred de Musset's many lovers; for the author of "Rolla" and the "Lettre à Lamartine" has lovers. The book has at last appeared—more than twenty years after the death of its hero.1 It is probably not unfair to suppose that a motive for delay has been removed by the recent death of Mme. Sand. M. Paul de Musset's volume proves, we confess, rather disappointing. It is a careful and graceful, but at the same time a very slight performance, such as was to be expected from the author of "Lui et Elle" and of the indignant refutation (in the biographical notice which accompanies the octavo edition of Alfred de Musset's works) of M. Taine's statement that the poet was addicted to walking about the streets late at night. As regards this latter point, M. Paul de Musset hastened to declare that his brother had no such habits—that his customs were those of a gentilhomme; by which the biographer would seem to mean that when the poet went abroad after dark it was in his own carriage, or at least in a hired cab, summoned from the nearest stand. M. Paul de Musset is a devoted brother and an agreeable writer; but he is not, from the critic's point of view, the ideal biographer. This, however, is not seriously to be regretted, for it is little to be desired that the ideal biography of Alfred de Musset should be written, or that he should be delivered over, bound hand and foot, to the critics. Those who really care for him would prefer to judge him with all kinds of allowances and indulgences—sentimentally and imaginatively. Between him and his readers it is a matter of affection, or it is nothing at all; and there is something very happy, therefore, in M. Paul de Musset's fond, fraternal reticency and extenuation. He has related his brother's life as if it were a pretty "story"; and indeed there is enough that was pretty in it to justify him. We should decline to profit by any information that might be offered us in regard to its prosaic, its possibly shabby side. To make the story complete, however, there appears simultaneously with M. Paul de Musset's volume a publication of a quite different sort—a memoir of the poet by a clever German writer, Herr Paul Lindau.2 Herr Lindau is highly appreciative, but he is also critical, and he says a great many things which M. Paul de Musset leaves unsaid. As becomes a German biographer, he is very minute and exhaustive, and a stranger who should desire a "general idea" of the poet would probably get more instruction from his pages than from the French memoir. Their fault is indeed that they are apparently addressed to persons whose mind is supposed to be a blank with regard to the author of "Rolla." The exactions of bookmaking alone can explain the long analyses and prose paraphrases of Alfred de Musset's comedies and tales to which Herr Lindau treats his readers—the dreariest kind of reading when an author is not in himself essentially inaccessible. Either one has not read Alfred de Musset's comedies or not felt the charm of them—in which case one will not be likely to resort to Herr Lindau's memoirs—or one has read them, in the charming original, and can therefore dispense with an elaborate German résumé.

In saying just now that M. Paul de Musset's biography of his brother is disappointing, we meant more particularly to express our regret that he has given us no letters—or given us at least but two or three. It is probable, however, that he had no more in his hands. Alfred de Musset lived in a very compact circle; he spent his whole life in Paris, and his friends lived in Paris near him. He was little separated from his brother, who appears to have been his best friend (M. Paul de Musset was six years Alfred's senior), and much of his life was passed under the same roof with the other members of his family. Seeing his friends constantly, he had no occasion to write to them; and as he saw little of the world (in the larger sense of the phrase), he would have had probably but little to write about. He made but one attempt at travelling—his journey to Italy, at the age of twenty-three, with George Sand. "He made no important journeys," says Herr Lindau, "and if one excepts his love affairs, he really had no experiences." But his love affairs, as a general thing, could not properly be talked about. M. de Musset shows good taste in not pretending to narrate them. He mentions two or three of the more important episodes of this class, and with regard to the others he says that when he does not mention them they may always be taken for granted. It is perhaps indeed in a limited sense that Alfred de Musset's love affairs may be said to have been in some cases more important than in others. It was his own philosophy that in this matter one thing is about as good as another—

Aimer est le grand point; qu'importe la maitresse?

Qu'importe le flacon pourvu qu'on ait l'ivresse?

Putting aside the "ivresse," which was constant, Musset's life certainly offers little material for narration. He wrote a few poems, tales, and comedies, and that is all. He did nothing, in the sterner sense of the word. He was inactive, indolent, idle; his record has very few dates. Two or three times the occasion to do something was offered him, but he shook his head and let it pass. It was proposed to him to accept a place as attaché to the French embassy at Madrid, a comfortable salary being affixed to the post. But Musset found no inspiration in the prospect. He had written about Spain in his earlier years—he had sung in the most charming fashion about Juanas and Pepitas, about señoras in mantillas stealing down palace staircases that look "blue" in the starlight. But the desire to see the picturesqueness that he had fancied proved itself to have none of the force of a motive. This is the fact in Musset's life which the writer of these lines finds most regrettable—the fact of his contented smallness of horizon—the fact that on his own line he should not have cared to go further. There is something really exasperating in the sight of a picturesque poet wantonly slighting an opportunity to go to Spain—the Spain of forty years ago. It does violence even to that minimum of intellectual eagerness which is the portion of a contemplative mind. It is annoying to think that Alfred de Musset should have been meagrely contemplative. This is the weakness that tells against him, more than the weakness of what would be called his excesses. From the point of view of his own peculiar genius, it was a good fortune for him to be susceptible and tender, sensitive and passionate. The trouble was not that he was all this, but that he was lax and soft; that he had too little energy and curiosity. Shelley was at least equally tremulous and sensitive—equally a victim of his impressions, and an echo, as it were, of his temperament. But even Musset's fondest readers must feel that Shelley had within him a firm, divinely-tempered spring against which his spirit might rebound indefinitely. As regards intense sensibility—that fineness of feeling which is the pleasure and pain of the poetic nature—M. Paul de Musset tells two or three stories of his brother which remind one of the anecdotes recorded of the author of the "Ode to the West Wind." "One of the things which he loved best in the world was a certain exclamation of Racine's 'Phædra,' which expresses by its bizarrerie the trouble of her sickened heart:

Ariane, ma sœur, de quel amour blessée,

Vous mourûtes aux bords où vous fûtes laissée!

When Rachel used to murmur forth this strange, unexpected plaint, Alfred always took his head in his two hands and turned pale with emotion."

The author describes the poet's early years, and gives several very pretty anecdotes of his childhood. Alfred de Musset was born in 1810, in the middle of old Paris, on a spot familiar to those many American visitors who wander across the Seine, better and better pleased as they go, to the museum of the Hôtel de Cluny. The house in which Musset's parents lived was close to this beautiful monument—a happy birthplace for a poet; but both the house and the street have now disappeared. M. Paul de Musset does not relate that his brother began to versify in his infancy; but Alfred was indeed hardly more than an infant when he achieved his first success. The poems published under the title of "Contes d'Espagne et d'Italie" were composed in his eighteenth and nineteenth years; he had but just completed his nineteenth when the volume into which they had been gathered was put forth. There are certainly—if one considers the quality of the poems—few more striking examples of literary precocity. The cases of Chatterton and Keats may be equally remarkable, but they are not more so. These first boyish verses of Musset have a vivacity, a brilliancy, a freedom of feeling and of fancy which may well have charmed the little cénacle to which he read them aloud—the group of littérateurs and artists which clustered about Victor Hugo, who, although at this time very young, was already famous. M. Paul de Musset intimates that if his brother was at this moment (and as we may suppose, indeed, always) one of the warmest admirers of the great author of "Hernani" and those other splendid productions which project their violet glow across the threshold of the literary era of 1830, and if Victor Hugo gave kindly audience to "Don Paez" and "Mardoche," this kindness declined in proportion as the fame of the younger poet expanded. Alfred de Musset was certainly not fortunate in his relations with his more distinguished contemporaries. Victor Hugo "dropped" him; it would have been better for him if George Sand had never taken him up; and Lamartine, to whom, in the shape of a passionate epistle, he addressed the most beautiful of his own, and one of the most beautiful of all poems, acknowledged the compliment only many years after it was paid. The cénacle was all for Spain, for local color, for serenades, and daggers, and Gothic arches. It was nothing if not audacious (it was in the van of the Romantic movement), and it was partial to what is called in France the "humoristic" as well as to the ferociously sentimental. Musset produced a certain "Ballade à la Lune" which began—

C'était dans la nuit brune

Sur le clocher jauni,

La lune

Comme un point sur un i!

This assimilation of the moon suspended above a church spire to a dot upon an i became among the young Romanticists a sort of symbol of what they should do and dare; just as in the opposite camp it became a by-word of horror. But this was only playing at poetry, and in his next things, produced in the following year or two, Musset struck a graver and more resonant chord. The pieces published under the title of "Un Spectacle dans un Fauteuil" have all the youthful grace and gayety of those that preceded them; but they have beyond this a suggestion of the quality which gives so high a value to the author's later and best verses—the accent of genuine passion. It is hard to see what, just yet, Alfred de Musset had to be passionate about; but passion, with a poet, even when it is most genuine, is very much of an affair of the imagination and the personal temperament (independent, we mean, of strong provoking causes), and the sensibilities of this young man were already exquisitely active. His poems found a great many admirers, and these admirers were often women. Hence for the young poet, says M. Paul de Musset, a great many romantic and "Boccaciennes" adventures. "On several occasions I was awaked in the middle of the night to give my opinion on some question of high prudence. All these little stories having been confided to me under the seal of secrecy, I have been obliged to forget them; but I may affirm that more than one of them would have aroused the envy of Bassompierre and Lauzun. Women at that time were not wholly absorbed in their care for luxury and dress. To hope to please, young men had no need to be rich; and it served a purpose to have at nineteen years of age the prestige of talent and glory." This is very pretty, as well as very Gallic; but it is rather vague, and we may without offence suspect it to be, to a certain extent, but that conventional coup de chapeau which every self-respecting Frenchman renders to actual or potential, past, present, or future gallantry. Doubtless, however, Musset was, in the native phrase, lancé. He lived with his father and mother, his brother and sister; his purse was empty; Seville and Granada were very far away; and these "Andalusian passions," as M. Paul de Musset says, were mere reveries and boyish visions. But they were the visions of a boy who was all ready to compare reality with romance, and who, in fact, very soon acceded to a proposal which appeared to offer a peculiar combination of the two. It is noticeable, by the way, that from our modest Anglo-Saxon point of view these same "Andalusian passions," dealing chiefly with ladies tumbling about on disordered couches, and pairs of lovers who take refuge from an exhausted vocabulary in biting each other, are an odd sort of thing for an ingenuous lad, domiciled in the manner M. Paul de Musset describes, and hardly old enough to have a latch-key, to lay on the family breakfast table. But this was very characteristic all round. Musset was not a didactic poet, and it was not for him to lose time by taking his first steps as one. His business was to talk about love in unmistakable terms, to proclaim its pleasures and pains with all possible eloquence; and he would have been quite at a loss to understand why he should have blushed or stammered in preluding to so beautiful a theme. Herr Lindau thinks that even in the germ Musset's inspiration is already vicious—that "his wonderful talent was almost simultaneously ripe and corrupted." But Herr Lindau speaks from the modest Saxon point of view; a point of view, however, from which, in such a matter, there is a great deal to be said.

The great event in Alfred de Musset's life, most people would say, was his journey to Italy with George Sand. This event has been abundantly—superabundantly—described, and Herr Lindau, in the volume before us, devotes a long chapter to it and lingers over it with peculiar complacency. Our own sentiment would be that there is something extremely displeasing in the publicity which has attached itself to the episode; that there is indeed a sort of colossal indecency in the way it has passed into the common fund of literary gossip. It illustrates the base, the weak, the trivial side of all the great things that were concerned in it—fame, genius, and love. Either the Italian journey was in its results a very serious affair for the remarkable couple who undertook it—in which case it should be left in that quiet place in the history of the development of the individual into which public intrusion can bring no light, but only darkness—or else it was a piece of levity and conscious self-display; in which case the attention of the public has been invited to it on false grounds. If there ever was an affair it should be becoming to be silent about, it was certainly this one; but neither the actors nor the spectators have been of this way of thinking; one may almost say that there exists a whole literature on the subject. To this literature Herr Lindau's contribution is perhaps the most ingenious. He has extracted those pages from Paul de Musset's novel of "Lui et Elle" which treat of the climax of the relations of the hero and heroine, and he has printed the names of George Sand and Alfred de Musset instead of the fictitious names. The result is perhaps of a nature to refresh the jaded vision of most lovers of scandal.

We must add that some of his judgments on the matter happen to have a certain felicity. M. Paul de Musset has narrated the story more briefly—having, indeed, by the publication of "Lui et Elle," earned the right to be brief. He mentions two or three facts, however, the promulgation of which he may have thought it proper, as we said before, to postpone to Mme. Sand's death. One of them is sufficiently dramatic. Musset had met George Sand in the summer of 1833, about the time of the publication of "Rolla"—seeing her for the first time at a dinner given to the contributors of the "Revue des Deux Mondes," at the Trois Frères Provençaux. George Sand was the only woman present. Sainte-Beuve had already endeavored to bring his two friends together, but the attempt had failed, owing to George Sand's reluctance, founded on an impression that she should not like the young poet. Alfred de Musset was twenty-three years of age; George Sand, who had published "Indiana," "Valentine," and "Lélia," was close upon thirty. Alfred de Musset, as the author of "Rolla," was a very extraordinary young man—quite the young man of whom Heinrich Heine could say "he has a magnificent past before him." Upon his introduction to George Sand, an intimacy speedily followed—an intimacy commemorated by the lady in expansive notes to Sainte-Beuve, whom she kept informed of its progress. When the winter came the two intimates talked of leaving Paris together, and, as an experiment, paid a visit to Fontainebleau. The experiment succeeded, but this was not enough, and they formed the project of going to Italy. To this project, as regarded her son, Mme. de Musset refused her consent. (Alfred's father, we should say, had died before the publication of "Rolla," leaving his children without appreciable property, though during his lifetime, occupying a post in a government office, he had been able to maintain them comfortably.) His mother's opposition was so vehement that Alfred gave up the project, and countermanded the preparations that had already been made for departure.

"That evening toward nine o'clock," says M. Paul de Musset, "our mother was alone with her daughter by the fireside, when she was informed that a lady was waiting for her at the door in a hired carriage, and begged urgently to speak with her. She went down accompanied by a servant. The unknown lady named herself; she besought this deeply grieved mother to confide her son to her, saying that she would have for him a maternal affection and care. As promises did not avail, she went so far as sworn vows. She used all her eloquence, and she must have had a great deal, since her enterprise succeeded. In a moment of emotion the consent was given." The author of "Lélia" and the author of "Rolla" started for Italy together. M. Paul de Musset mentions that he accompanied them to the mail coach "on a sad, misty evening, in the midst of circumstances that boded ill." They spent the winter at Venice, and M. Paul de Musset and his mother continued to hear regularly from Alfred. But toward the middle of February his letters suddenly stopped, and for six weeks they were without news. They were on the point of starting for Italy, to put an end to their suspense, when they received a melancholy epistle informing them that their son and brother was on his way home. He was slowly recovering from an attack of brain fever, but as soon as he should be able to drag himself along he would seek the refuge of the paternal roof.

On the 10th of April he reappeared alone. A quarter of a century later, and a short time after his death, Mme. Sand gave to the world, in the guise of a novel, an account of the events which had occupied this interval. The account was highly to her own advantage and much to the discredit of her companion. Paul de Musset immediately retorted with a little book which is decidedly poor as fiction, but tolerably good, probably, as history. As a devoted brother, given all the circumstances, it was perhaps the best thing he could do. It is believed that his reply was more than, in the vulgar phrase, Mme. Sand had bargained for; inasmuch as he made use of documents of whose existence she had been ignorant. Alfred de Musset, suspecting that her version of their relations would be given to the world, had, in the last weeks of his life, dictated to his brother a detailed statement of those incidents to which misrepresentation would chiefly address itself, and this narrative Paul de Musset simply incorporated in his novel. The gist of it is that the poet's companion took advantage of his being seriously ill, in Venice, to be flagrantly unfaithful, and that, discovering her infidelity, he relapsed into a brain fever which threatened his life, and from which he rose only to make his way home with broken wings and a bleeding heart.

Mme. Sand's version of the story is that his companion's infidelity was a delusion of the fever itself, and that the charge was but the climax of a series of intolerable affronts and general fantasticalities.

Fancy the great gossiping, vulgar-minded public deliberately invited to ponder this delicate question! The public should never have been appealed to; but once the appeal made, it administers perforce a rough justice of its own. According to this rough justice, the case looks badly for Musset's fellow traveller. She was six years older than he (at that time of life a grave fact); she had drawn him away from his mother, taken him in charge, assumed a responsibility. Their literary physiognomies were before the world, and she was, on the face of the matter, the riper, stronger, more reasonable nature. She had made great pretensions to reason, and it is fair to say of Alfred de Musset that he had made none whatever. What the public sees is that the latter, unreasonable though he may have been, comes staggering home, alone and forlorn, while his companion remains quietly at Venice and writes three or four highly successful romances. Herr Lindau, who analyzes the affair, comes to the same conclusion as the gross synthetic public; and he qualifies certain sides of it in terms of which observant readers of George Sand's writings will recognize the justice. It is very happy to say "she was something of a Philistine;" that at the bottom of all experience with her was the desire to turn it to some economical account; and that she probably irritated her companion in a high degree by talking too much about loving him as a mother and a sister. (This, it will be remembered, is the basis of action with Thérèse, in "Elle et Lui." She becomes the hero's mistress in order to retain him in the filial relation, after the fashion of Rousseau's friend, Mme. de Warens.) On the other hand, it seems hardly fair to make it one of Musset's grievances that his comrade was industrious, thrifty, and methodical; that she had, as the French say, de l'ordre; and that, being charged with the maintenance of a family, she allowed nothing to divert her from producing her daily stint of "copy."

It is easy to believe that Musset may have tried the patience of a tranquil associate. George Sand's Jacques Laurent, in "Elle et Lui," is a sufficiently vivid portrait of a highly endowed, but hopelessly petulant, unreasonable, and dissipated egotist. We are far from suspecting that the portrait is perfectly exact; no portrait by George Sand is perfectly exact. Whatever point of view she takes, she always abounds too much in her own sense. But it evidently has a tolerably solid foundation in fact. Herr Lindau holds that Alfred de Musset's life was literally blighted by the grief that he suffered in Italy, and that the rest of his career was a long, erratic, unprofitable effort to drown the recollection of it. Our own inclination would be to judge him at once with more and with less indulgence. Whether deservedly or no, there is no doubt that his suffering was great; his brother quotes a passage from a document written five years after the event, in which Alfred affirms that, on his return to Paris, he spent four months shut up in his room in incessant tears—tears interrupted only by a "mechanical" game of chess in the evening. But Musset, like all poets, was essentially a creature of impression; as with all poets, his sentimental faculty needed constantly to renew itself. He found his account in sorrow, or at least in emotion, and we may say, in differing from Herr Lindau, that he was not a man to let a grievance grow stale. To feel permanently the need of smothering sorrow is in a certain sense to be sobered by it. Musset was never sobered (a cynical commentator would say he was never sober). Emotions bloomed again lightly and brilliantly on the very stem on which others had withered. After the catastrophe at times his imagination saved him, distinctly, from permanent depression; and on a different line, this same imagination helped him into dissipation.

M. Paul de Musset mentions that in 1837 his brother conceived a "passion sérieuse" for an attractive young lady, and that the liaison lasted two years—"two years during which there was never a quarrel, a storm, a cooling-off; never a pretext for umbrage or jealousy. This is why," he adds, "there is nothing to be told of them. Two years of love without a cloud cannot be narrated." It is noticeable that this is the third "passion sérieuse" that M. Paul de Musset alludes to since the dolorous weeks which followed the return from Venice. Shortly after this period another passion had come to the front; a passion which, like that which led him to Italy, was destined to have a tragical termination. This particular love affair is commemorated, in accents of bitter melancholy, in the "Nuit de Décembre," just as the other, which had found its catastrophe at Venice, figures, by clear allusion, in "Nuit de Mai," published a few months before. It may provoke a philosophic smile to learn, as we do from M. Paul de Musset—candid biographer!—that the "motives" of these two poems are not identical, as they have hitherto been assumed to be. It had never occurred to the reader that one disillusionment could follow so fast upon the heels of another. When we add that a short time afterward—as the duration of great intimacies of the heart is measured—Alfred de Musset was ready to embark upon "two years of love without a cloud" with still another object—to say nothing of the brief interval containing a sentimental episode of which our biographer gives the prettiest account—we seem to be justified in thinking that, for a "blighted" life, that of Alfred de Musset exhibited a certain germinal vivacity.

During his stay in Italy he had written nothing; but the five years which followed his return are those of his most active and brilliant productivity. The finest of his verses, the most charming of his tales, the most original of his comedies, belong to this relatively busy period. Everything that he wrote at this time has a depth and intensity which distinguishes it from the jocosely sentimental productions of his début, and from the somewhat mannered and vapidly elegant compositions which he put forth, at wide intervals, during the last fifteen years of his life. This was the period of Musset's intellectual virility. He was very precocious, but he was at the same time, at first, very youthful. On the other hand, his decline began early; in most of his later things, especially in his verses (they become very few in number), the inspiration visibly runs thin. "Mon verre n'est pas grand, mais je bois dans mon verre," he had said, and both clauses of the sentence are true. His glass held but a small quantity; the best of his verses—those that one knows by heart and never wearies of repeating—are very soon counted. We have named them when we have mentioned "Rolla," the "Nuit de Mai," the "Nuit d'Aout" and the "Nuit d'Octobre"; the "Lettre à Lamartine," and the "Stances à la Malibran." These, however, are perfection; and if Musset had written nothing else, he would have had a right to say that it was from his own glass that he drank. The most beautiful of his comedies, "Il ne faut pas badiner avec l'Amour," dates from 1834, and to the same year belongs the "Lorenzaccio," the strongest, if not the most exquisite, of his dramatic attempts. His two most agreeable nouvelles, "Emmeline" and "Fréderic et Bernerette," appeared about the same time. But we have not space to enumerate his productions in detail. During the fifteen last years of his life, as we have said, they grew more and more rare; the poet had, in a certain sense, out-lived himself. Of these last years Herr Lindau gives a rather realistic and unflattered sketch; picturing him especially as a figure publicly familiar to Parisian loungers, who were used to observe him as "an unfortunate with an interesting face, dressed with extreme care," with the look of youth and the lassitude of age, seated in a corner of a café and gazing blankly over a marble table on which "a half empty bottle of absinthe and a quite empty glass" stood before him. M. Paul de Musset, in describing his brother's later years, is mindful of the rule to glide, not to press; with a very proper fraternal piety, he leaves a great many foibles and transgressions in the shade. He mentions, however, Alfred's partiality for spirits and stimulants—a taste which had defined itself in his early years. Musset made an excessive use of liquor; in plain English, he got drunk. Sainte-Beuve, somewhere in one of his merciless but valuable foot-notes, alludes to the author of "Rolla" coming tipsy to the sittings of the French Academy. Herr Lindau repeats a pun which was current on such occasions. "Musset s'absente trop," said some one. "Il s'absinthe trop," replied some one else. He had been elected to the Academy in 1852. His speech on the occasion of his reception was a disappointment to his auditors. Herr Lindau attributes the sterility of his later years to indolence and perversity; and it is probable that there is not a little justice in the charge. He was unable to force himself; he belonged to the race of gifted people who must do as it pleases them. When a literary task was proposed to him and he was not in the humor for it, he was wont to declare that he was not a maid-of-all-work, but an artist. He must write when the fancy took him; the fancy took him, unfortunately, less and less frequently. With a very uncertain income, and harassed constantly by his debts, he scorned to cultivate a pecuniary inspiration. He died in the arms of his brother in the spring of 1857.

He was beyond question one of the first poets of our day. If the poetic force is measured by the quality of the inspiration—by its purity, intensity, and closely personal savor—Alfred de Musset's place is surely very high. He was, so to speak, a thoroughly personal poet. He was not the poet of nature, of the universe, of reflection, of morality, of history; he was the poet simply of a certain order of personal emotions, and his charm is in the frankness and freedom, the grace and harmony, with which he expressed these emotions. The affairs of the heart—these were his province; in no other verses has the heart spoken more characteristically. Herr Lindau says very justly that if he was not the greatest poet among his contemporaries, he was at any rate the most poetically constituted nature. A part of the rest of Herr Lindau's judgment is worth quoting:

He has remained the poet of youth. No one has sung so truthfully and touchingly its aspirations and its sensibilities, its doubts and its hopes. No one has comprehended and justified its follies and its amiable idiosyncrasies with a more poetic irony, with a deeper conviction. His joy was young, his sorrow was young, and young was his song. To youth he owes all happiness, and in youth he sang his brightest chants. But the weakness of youth was his fatal enemy, and with youth faded away his joy in existence and in creation.

This is exactly true. Half the beauty of Musset's writing is its simple suggestion of youthfulness—of something fresh and fair, slim and tremulous, with a tender epidermis. This quality, with some readers, may seem to deprive him of a certain proper dignity; and it is very true that he was not a Stoic. You may even call him unmanly. He cries out when he is hurt; he resorts frequently to tears, and he talks much about his tears. (We have seen that after his return from Venice they formed, for four months, his principal occupation.) But his defence is that if he does not bear things like a man, he at least, according to Shakespeare's distinction, feels them like a man. What makes him valuable is just this gift for the expression of that sort of emotion which the conventions and proprieties of life, the dryness of ordinary utterance, the stiffness of most imaginations, leave quite in the vague, and yet which forms a part of human nature important enough to have its exponent. If the presumption is against the dignity of deeply poetic utterance, poor Musset is, in the vulgar phrase, nowhere—he is a mere grotesque sound of lamentation. But if in judging him you don't stint your sympathy, you will presently perceive him to have an extraordinarily precious quality—a quality equally rare in literature and in life. He has passion. There is in most poetry a great deal of reflection, of wisdom, of grace, of art, of genius; but (especially in English poetry) there is little of this peculiar property of Musset's. When it occurs we feel it to be extremely valuable; it touches us beyond anything else. It was the great gift of Byron, the quality by which he will live in spite of those weaknesses and imperfections which may be pointed out by the dozen. Alfred de Musset in this respect resembled the poet whom he appears most to have admired—living at a time when it had not begun to be the fashion to be ashamed to take Byron seriously. Mr. Swinburne in one of his prose essays speaks of him with violent scorn as Byron's "attendant dwarf," or something of that sort. But this is to miss the case altogether. There is nothing diminutive in generous admiration, and nothing dwarfish in being a younger brother; Mr. Swinburne's charge is too coarse a way of stating the position. Musset resembles Byron in the fact that the beauty of his verse is somehow identical with the feeling of the writer—with his immediate, sensible warmth—and not dependent upon that reflective stage into which, to produce its great effects, most English poetic expression instantly passes, and which seems to chill even while it nobly beautifies. Musset is talked of nowadays in France very much as Byron is talked of among ourselves; it is noticed that he often made bad verse, and he is accused of having but half known his trade. This sort of criticism is eminently just, and there is a weak side of the author of "Rolla" which it is easy to attack.

Alfred de Musset, like Mr. Murray's fastidious correspondent, wrote poetry as an amateur—wrote it, as they say in France, en gentilhomme. It is the fashion, I believe, in some circles, to be on one's guard against speaking foreign tongues too well (the precaution is perhaps superfluous) lest a marked proficiency should expose one to be taken for a teacher of languages. It was a feeling of this kind, perhaps, that led Alfred de Musset to a certain affectation of negligence and laxity; though he wrote for the magazines, he could boast a long pedigree, and he had nothing in common with the natives of Grub street. Since his death a new school of poets has sprung up—of which, indeed, his contemporary, Théophile Gautier, may be regarded as the founder. These gentlemen have taught French poetry a multitude of paces of which so sober-footed a damsel was scarcely to have been supposed capable; they have discovered a great many secrets which Musset appears never to have suspected, or (if he did suspect them) to have thought not worth finding out. They have sounded the depths of versification, and beside their refined, consummate facture Musset's simple devices and good-natured prosody seem to belong to a primitive stage of art. It is the difference between a clever performer on the tight rope and a gentleman strolling along on soft turf with his hands in his pockets. If people care supremely for form, Musset will always but half satisfy them. It is very pretty, they will say; but it is confoundedly unbusinesslike. His verse is not chiselled and pondered, and in spite of an ineffable natural grace, it lacks the positive qualities of cunning workmanship—those qualities which are found in such high perfection in Théophile Gautier. To our own sense Musset's exquisite feeling more than makes up for one-half the absence of "chiselling," and the ineffable grace we spoke of just now makes up for the other half. His sweetness of passion, of which the poets who have succeeded him have so little, is a more precious property than their superior science. His grace is often something divine; it is in his grace that we must look for his style. Herr Lindau says that Heine speaks of "truth, harmony, and grace" being his salient qualities. (By the first, we take it, he meant what we have called Musset's passion.) His harmony, from the first, was often admirable; the rhythm of even some of his earliest verses makes them haunt the ear after one has murmured them aloud.

Ulric, des mers nul œil n'a mesuré l'abîme,

Ni les hérons plongeurs, ni les vieux matelots;

Le soleil vient briser ses rayons sur leur cime,

Comme un soldat vaincu brise ses javelots.

Musset's grace, in its suavity, freedom, and unaffectedness, is altogether peculiar; though it must be said that it is only in the poems of his middle period that it is at its best. His latest things are, according to Sainte-Beuve, califichets—baubles; they are too much in the rococo, the Dresden china style. But as we have said before, with his youth Musset's inspiration failed him. It failed him in his prose as well as in his verse. "Il faut qu'une Porte soit ouverte ou fermée," one of the last of his dramatic proverbs, is very charming, very perfect in its way; but compared with the tones of the "Caprices de Marianne," the "Chandelier," "Fantasio," the sentiment is thin and the style has rather a simper. It is what the French call marivaudage. There can, however, be no better example of the absoluteness of the poetic sentiment, of its justifying itself as it goes, of lyrical expression being as it were not only a means, but an end, than the irresistible beauty of such effusions as the "Lettre à Lamartine" and the "Nuit d'Aout."

Poëte, je t'écris pour te dire que j'aime!

—that is all, literally, that Musset has to say to the "amant d'Elvire"; and it would be easy to make merry at the expense of so simply candid a piece of "gush." But the confidence is made with a transparent ardor, a sublime good faith, an audible, touching tremor of voice, which, added to the enchanting harmony of the verse, make the thing one of the most splendid poems of our day.

Ce ne sont pas des chants, ce ne sont que des larmes,

Et je ne te dirai que ce que Dieu m'a dit!

Musset has never risen higher. He has, in strictness, only one idea—the idea that the passion of love and the act of loving are the divinest things in a miserable world; that love has a thousand disappointments, deceptions, and pangs, but that for its sake they are all worth enduring, and that, as Tennyson has said, more curtly and reservedly,

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

Sometimes he expresses this idea in the simple epicurean fashion, with gayety and with a more or less cynical indifference to the moral side of the divine passion. Then he is often pretty, picturesque, fanciful, but he remains essentially light. At other times he feels its relation to the other things that make up man's destiny, and the sense of aspiration meets with the sense of enjoyment or of regret. Then he is at his best; then he seems an image of universally sentient youth.

Je ne puis; malgré moi, l'infini me tourmente.

Je n'y saurais songer sans crainte et sans espoir;

Et quoiqu'on en ait dit, ma raison s'épouvante

De ne pas le comprendre, et pourtant de le voir.

While we may suspect that there is something a little over-colored in M. Paul de Musset's account of the degree to which his brother was haunted by the religious sentiment—by the impulse to grope for some philosophy of life—we may also feel that with the poet's sense of the "divineness" of love there went a conviction that ideal love implies a divine object. This is the feeling expressed in the finest lines of the "Lettre à Lamartine"—in lines at least which, if they are not the finest, are fine enough to quote:

Eh bien, bon ou mauvais, inflexible ou fragile,

Humble ou gai, triste ou fier, mais toujours gémissant,

Cet homme, tel qu'il est, cet être fait d'argile,

Tu l'a vu, Lamartine, et son sang est ton sang.

Son bouheur est le tien; sa douleur est la tienne;

Et des maux qu'ici bas il lui faut endurer,

Pas un qui ne te touche et qui ne t'appartienne;

Puisque tu sais chanter, ami, tu sais pleurer.

Dis-moi, qu'en penses-tu dans tes jours de tristesse?

Que t'a dit le malheur quand tu l'as consulté?

Trompé par tes amis, trahi par ta maitresse,

Du ciel et de toi-même as-tu jamais douté?

Non, Alphonse, jamais. La triste expérience

Nous apporte la cendre et n'éteint pas le feu.

Tu respectes le mal fait par la Providence;

Tu le laisses passer et tu crois à ton Dieu.

Quelqu'il soit c'est le mien; il n'est pas deux croyances.

Jene sais pas son nom: j'ai regardé les cieux;

Je sais qu'ils sont à lui, je sais qu'ils sont immenses,

Et que l'immensité ne peut pas être à deux.

J'ai connu, jeune encor, de sévères souffrances;

J'ai vu verdir les bois et j'ai tenté d'aimer.

Je sais ce que la terre engloutit d'esperances,

Et pour y recueillir ce qu'il y faut semer.

Mais ce que j'ai senti, ce que je veux t'écrire,

C'est ce que m'ont appris les anges de douleur;

Je le sais mieux encor et puis mieux te le dire,

Car leur glaive, en entrant, l'a gravé dans mon cœur.

And the rest of the poem is a lyrical declaration of belief in immortality.

We have called the "Lettre à Lamartine" Musset's highest flight, but the "Nuit de Mai" is almost as fine a poem—full of imaginative splendor and melancholy ecstasy. The series of the "Nuits" is altogether superb; with an exception made, perhaps, for the "Nuit de Décembre," which has a great deal of sombre beauty, but which is not, like the others, in the form of a dialogue between the Muse and the poet—the Muse striving to console the world-wounded bard for his troubles, and urging him to take refuge in hope and production:

Poëte, prends ton luth et me donne un baiser;

La fleur de l'églantier sent ses bourgeons éclore.

Le printemps naît ce soir; les vents vout s'embraser;

Et la bergeronette, en attendant l'aurore,

Au premier buissons vertes commence à se poser.

Poëte, prends ton luth et me donne un baiser.

That is impregnated with the breath of a vernal night. The same poem (the "Nuit de Mai") contains the famous passage about the pelican—the passage beginning

Les plus' désespérés sont les chants les plus beaux,

Et j'en sais d'immortels qui sont de purs sanglots——

in which the legend of the pelican opening his breast to feed his starving young is made an image of what the poet does to entertain his readers:

Poëte, c'est ainsi que font les grands poëtes.

Ils laissent s'égayer ceux qui vivent un temps;

Mais les festins humains qu'ils servent à leurs fêtes

Ressemblent la plupart à ceux des pélicans.

This passage is perhaps—unless we except the opening verses of "Rolla"—Musset's noblest piece of poetic writing. We must place next to it—next to the three "Nuits"—the admirably passionate and genuine "Stanzas to Malibran"—a beautiful characterization of the artistic disinterestedness of the singer who suffered her genius to consume her—who sang herself to death. The closing verses of the poem have a wonderful purity; to rise so high, and yet in form, in accent, to remain so still and temperate, belongs only to great poetry; as it would be well to remind the critic who thinks the author of the "Stanzas to Malibran" dwarfish. There is another sort of verse in which violence of movement is more sensible than upwardness of direction.

So far in relation to Musset's lyric genius—though we have given but a brief and inadequate account of it. He had besides a dramatic genius of the highest beauty, to which we have left ourself space to devote only a few words. It is true that the drama with Musset has a decidedly lyrical element, and that though his persons always talk prose, they are constantly saying things which would need very little help to fall into the mould of a stanza or a sonnet. In his dramas as in his verses, his weakness is that he is amateurish; they lack construction; their merit is not in their plots, but in what, for want of a better term, one may call their sentimental perfume. The earliest of them failed upon the stage, and for many years it was supposed they could not be played. Musset supposed so himself, and took no trouble to encourage the experiment. He made no concessions to contemporary "realism." But at last they were taken up—almost by accident—and it was found that, in the hands of actors whose education enabled them to appreciate their delicacy, this delicacy might become wonderfully effective. If feeling is the great quality in his verses, the case is the same in his strange, fantastic, exquisite little comédies; comedies in the literal English sense of the word we can hardly call them, for they have almost always a melancholy or a tragical termination. They are thoroughly sentimental; he puts before us people who convince us that they really feel; the drama is simply the history of their feeling. In the emotions of Valentin and Perdican, of Fantasio and Fortunio, of Célio and Octave, of Carmosine and Bettine, there is something contagious, irresistibly touching. But the great charm is Musset's dramatic world itself, the atmosphere in which his figures move, the element they breathe.

It seems at first like a reckless thing to say, but we will risk it: in the quality of his fancy Musset always reminds us of Shakespeare. His little dramas go on in the country of "As you Like It" and the "Winter's Tale"; the author is at home there, like Shakespeare himself, and he moves with something of the Shakespearian lightness and freedom. His fancy loves to play with human life, and in the tiny mirror which it holds up we find something of the depth and mystery of the object. Musset's dialogue, in its mingled gayety and melancholy, its sweetness and irony, its allusions to real things and its kinship with a romantic world, has an altogether indefinable magic. To speak it on the stage is almost to make it coarse. Once Musset attempted a larger theme than usual; in "Lorenzaccio" he wrote an historical drama on the scale of Shakespeare's histories; that is, with multitudes of figures, scenes, incidents, and illustrations. He laid his hand on an admirable subject—the story of a certain Lorenzino de' Medici, who played at being a debauchee and a poltroon in order better to put the tyrant of Florence (his own cousin) off his guard, and serve his country by ridding her of him. The play shows an extraordinary abundance and vivacity of imagination, and really, out of those same "histories" of Shakespeare, it is hard to see where one should find an equal spontaneity in dealing with the whole human furniture of a period. Alfred de Musset, in "Lorenzaccio," has the air of being as ready to handle a hundred figures as a dozen—of having imagination enough for them all. The thing has the real creative souffle, and if it is not the most perfect of his productions, it is probably the most vigorous.

We have not spoken of his tales; their merit is the same as of the comédies—that of spontaneous feeling, and of putting people before us in whose feelings we believe. Besides this, they have Musset's grace and delicacy in a perhaps excessive degree; they are the most mannered of his productions. Two or three of them, however—"Emmeline," "Les Deux Maîtresses," "Frédéric et Bernerette"—are masterpieces; this last epithet is especially to be bestowed upon the letter written by the heroine of the last-mentioned tale (an incorrigibly volage grisette) to her former lover on the occasion of his marrying and settling. The incoherency, the garrulity, the mingled resignation and regret of an amiable flirt of the lower orders, divided between the vivacity of her emotion and the levity of her nature, are caught in the act; and yet it is not fair to say of anything represented by Musset that it is caught in the act. Just the beauty and charm of it is that it is not the exact reality, but a something seen by the imagination—a tinge of the ideal, a touch of poetry. We must try to see Musset himself in the same way; his own figure needs to a certain extent the help of our imagination. And yet, even with such help taken, we cannot but feel that he is an example of the wasteful way in which nature and history sometimes work—of their cruel indifference to our personal standards of economy—of the vast amount of material they take to produce a little result.

Alfred de Musset's exquisite organization, his exaltations and weaknesses, his pangs and tears, his passions and debaucheries, his intemperance and idleness, his years of unproductiveness, his innumerable mistresses (with whatever pangs and miseries it may seem proper to attribute to them), his quarrel with a woman of genius, and the scandals, exposures, and recriminations that are so ungracefully bound up with it—all this was necessary in order that we should have the two or three little volumes into which his best could be compressed. It takes certainly a great deal of life to make a little art! In this case, however, we must remember, that little is exquisite.

Henry James, Jr.



Your eyes say, "Sweet, I love—I love you, sweet."

Where is the blame

If, when their mute significance I meet,

Mine say the same?

Nay, thank me not, nor deem your triumph near.

The message bright

My glance conveys—'tis but—believe, me, dear—

Reflected light!

Mary Ainge De Vere.



The companies organized under the general law of the State of New York are the mere creatures of that statute. Their organization, management, powers for good or evil, opportunities for mismanagement and corruption, are all to be traced directly to the law to which they owe their being. It will be necessary, therefore, for an intelligent understanding of the condition to which the business has come, to examine the act particularly. It is chapter 463 of the laws of 1853. It provides that any number of persons not less than thirteen may form a corporation for the purpose of making insurance on the lives of individuals, or against accidents, or on the health of persons, or on live stock. Such corporators are allowed to draw their own charter, and upon its approval by the Attorney General, that document has all the force of positive law. It is of course subject to the provisions of the act itself, but those provisions are so few and meagre that it is practically left to the promoters of the scheme to draw their own charter of incorporation. The capital stock is to be not less than $100,000, and no provision is made for the incorporating of any company without a capital. The rate of dividends to the stockholders, the proportion of profits to be paid the policy-holders, and the time of payment, are not provided for in the law, and are left to be settled by the associates. The consequence is that no two companies are alike in this respect. In some of them the stockholder receives an interest of seven per cent. upon his stock, and is entitled to no more under any circumstances, the whole surplus or profits being divided among the policy-holders. In others, in addition to interest, the stock is entitled to participate with the policies in the surplus. The extent of this participation varies; in some it is fixed at ten per cent. of the whole profits, to the stock-holders, in others twenty, and in others thirty per cent. In all of them, however, with one exception, participation by the policy-holders in the profits of the business is a rule. To a greater or lesser extent, in some to the whole profits, it is the recognized rule that the holders of policies are to receive dividends or bonuses from the companies out of the profits. In effect, therefore, so far as participation in the profits of the business goes, all our companies, with the one exception before mentioned, are mutual companies.

The act makes no provision for the government of the corporations it allows to be created. It leaves it to the promoters to state the mode and manner in which the corporate powers shall be exercised, and the manner of electing trustees, or directors, and officers. The natural consequence of this provision is, that the manner of electing trustees and directors varies in different companies. In some of them the stock-holders alone have any voice or vote, in others the policy-holders are allowed, under certain restrictions, to vote, but it is safe to say that in all of them the power is kept in the hands of the stock-holders as far as it possibly can be; and the policy-holders are allowed as little voice in the management of the company as the stock-holders can permit.

The result of this vice in the formation of the company is shown in corporations which have amassed a large reserve. There it will be seen that the owners of one hundred thousand dollars of stock absolutely control the entire management and disposition of twenty, thirty, or forty millions of accumulations, as the case may be; and the real owners of this fund—the policy-holders—have no voice in its management and no vote for the body or board which exercises the powers of the corporation.

It is contended by very prominent gentlemen in the life insurance business, that this plan is the only safe one; that interference in the management of the company by uninstructed policy-holders, not versed in the business, would be productive of nothing but evil. They contend that the necessary unity of management required for a business, covering as this does long periods of time, and requiring carefully laid plans extending into the distant future, would be greatly endangered by the existence of a right to participate in the management by representation on the part of so numerous and so widely scattered a constituency. In other words, the managers of companies which have retained in the hands of the stock-holders all the powers of the corporation think that those powers are more safely exercised by that small body than they would be if participated in by all the holders of policies. It may be doubted, however, whether a constituency small in number and capable of manipulation, and their votes of concentration into the hands of a few men, is the safest body to manage a corporation whose chief business is the care of the accumulations arising from the trust imposed upon the corporation by the contract of life insurance. The power of wielding a mass of capital amounting to many millions of dollars is an enormous power, and it should be reposed only in a body which should be responsible for the careful, honest administration of the trust, at stated intervals, to the persons most interested—that is, to the policy-holders—the owners of the trust fund. One of the chief characteristics of English companies is, that at the annual meeting of the interested persons a full statement of the affairs of the company is laid before the meeting, and an opportunity offered of critical examination and comment. Discontent is thus allowed a safety valve to express itself through, and the managers an opportunity of explaining their action and accounting for their conduct. Public opinion—the public opinion of the persons interested—is allowed a chance of expression, and all misunderstandings and misconceptions an opportunity for examination and refutation. The right to interrogate the managers, and ask and obtain information as to the business at such regularly recurring intervals, is an inestimable one. It can hardly be conceived possible that great abuses could grow up if such a right existed; but at any rate it is apparent that the probability of such abuses is lessened to a great extent.

But this English practice is not known among us. In life insurance affairs we have nothing remotely approaching it. It seems to have been the policy of our companies to restrict participation in their management to the smallest possible number, to avoid opportunities for questioning or explanation, and to shroud the business in the deepest mystery.

The officers of companies responsible for this policy justify themselves upon the broad ground that they know better what is good for the policy-holders than they do themselves. In the light of the evidence given before the Committee of the Assembly by life insurance officers, and in the light of the affairs of the Continental, Security, and Popular, it may be doubted whether this assertion proves itself. It has the merit, however, that every honest avowal has, and it is entitled to examination.

Why should a self-electing, self-perpetuating proprietary board, resting upon a constituency composed solely of owners of the capital stock, be a safer or better management than one elected by the votes of the policy-holders at large? The only answer you can get to that query is this: The board elected by the stock-holders are sure of their position, and it is not in the power of a few malcontents to get up a secret movement to oust them at the election. The more stable management is to be preferred to one which is dependent on the popularity of the officers with the policy-holders. It is in the nature of things that the officers should become more or less unpopular. The business depends for success upon the enforcement of strict rules in dealing with the policy-holders, and the enforcement of these strict rules, although absolutely necessary for the success of the business, naturally tends to give fancied grievances to the persons against whom they are enforced. If, therefore, the tenure of office of the management depends upon the policy-holders, there is the constant danger of frequent attempts at revolution arising from this cause, and the consequent weakness of the officers in enforcing rules the enforcement of which may tend to shorten their tenure of office.

I think I have fairly stated the argument. Is there anything in it? Is the reason given any reason at all? Is it not rather a positive argument against the system. Perhaps the best government for men and companies is an absolute monarchy, without accountability or restraint; there are large masses of the human race who are so governed; and it is an open question yet whether government by the people be or be not the best government. But certainly one thing is assured. In this day and in this country the monarchical and the oligarchical systems are out of date and out of place; and all attempts to introduce them or the principles which underlie them into our system of free government by the representatives of the governed will be failures. The doctrine of paternal government is "played out" in affairs of nations, and it is not to be supposed that the principle has in it any greater efficacy when applied to the affairs of corporations. The fact is, we have too much of this thing in all our relations political and social. The idea that there is a class who are in their own estimation better able to govern than the rest of mankind has been exploded by the experience of the people of this country, and it is intolerable that we should be forced to do homage in our private affairs to a principle which we have, as regards public business, exploded long ago as a traditional fallacy.

Most of the evil practices which have made the whole system of life insurance a by-word and the scorn of the people, have arisen under this irresponsible management. Investments in extravagant buildings, the enormous expenditures for payments of salaries to officers and to agents, are all the result of the secret plan of management. Does any one suppose that if the affairs of the companies were fully and completely exposed to the public, such payments would be permitted or tolerated? Men are entitled to be paid for services rendered the full equivalent of those services, but they ought not to be allowed to be the sole judges of the value of those services, and they ought to be at all times ready and willing to come before the persons interested, and submit a full, fair, and clear account of their stewardship. Human nature is of the same quality in the managers of life insurance companies as in other men. Responsibility to some power, accountability to some persons or body, is absolutely essential to honest management. Men who know that they cannot or will not be called to account will fall into loose and unbusinesslike methods and practices. Nothing can be more dangerous to the honesty of a man than to place him in charge of immense interests without a system of periodical accountability. A man may be ever so honest, yet he will, if this accountability be absent, be led to do things which he never would do if he were sure that at a fixed period his doings would become known and he would be required to justify them.

From these considerations and on these grounds, I come to the conclusion that the management of a life insurance company by a board of directors elected solely by the stock-holders is a management which contains within itself the germs of a fatal disease, which will sooner or later develop itself. In this respect legislation is needed. Such a management ought to be forbidden, and a provision made for the election of trustees by the policy-holders as well as the stock-holders, upon a basis as to the vote and the amount of interest it should represent which would be equitable and just.

Complaints have been made against the use of proxies in elections. Notably these complaints have been made respecting elections in the Mutual Life Insurance Company, a corporation which has no stock-holders, but which consists in a membership of its policy-holders. These policy-holders have the supreme control of the corporation in their own hands. Its government is by them delegated to a board of trustees thirty-six in number, divided into four classes of nine in each class. The term of office is four years, so that nine trustees go out of office in each year. This classification prevents the possibility of any sudden change of management, while it leaves all needed control in the hands of the policy-holders. If, for instance, dissatisfaction with the management exists, and nine new trustees are elected, it is not to be doubted but that the warning would be listened to and the necessary change of policy effected to satisfy the constituency. On the other hand, should the change of trustees be the result of a combination to seize the management of the company for any improper purpose, the first election would unmask the design and insure its defeat by an appeal to the voters.

The objections to the use of proxies come entirely from those policy-holders who have been defeated by their use, or fear they will be defeated by their use, in an attempt to change the management. Does not this prove that the great body of policy-holders believe in the management and are determined to sustain it. In a free company based upon the liberal principles upon which the Mutual Life is established, any attempt to limit the franchise would be an unparalleled wrong. The policy-holder in Chicago or in San Francisco has the same right to exercise his right to a voice in the election of trustees as the policy-holder who resides in New York, and there can be no reason why he should not cast his vote by proxy, since it would result in his disfranchisement to require him to do it in person. Be sure that if real trouble arose, and there was an abuse to rectify, if there were officers unmindful of their duties to rebuke, or trustees regardless of their trust to set aside, the votes cast by proxy would be as intelligently given as those of the residents immediately near the office who could attend in person. Every effort to limit the right to vote by proxy is an attempt to perpetuate power in the hands of the policy-holders resident here, which would be quite as obnoxious to sound principles as the government of companies solely by the stockholders.

It would appear, on every principle of fairness and justice, that the more full and perfect the right of the policy-holder to participate in the election of trustees, the more stable and conservative will be the management. On the other hand, it is quite as apparent that the limitation of such right is attended with consequences the reverse of those just stated, and those consequences attained in proportion to the limitation of the right.

With the broad superstructure of a body of voting policy-holders, the selling out of the control of a company is impossible, because no one will be willing to pay for the possession which the next election may deprive him of. Of all the mean and contemptible methods of robbery as yet discovered, the selling out of a life insurance company is the meanest and most contemptible. Too cowardly to wreck it themselves and personally rob the widows and orphans, the trustees, who quietly receive a bonus for their stock and retire from the management, sell the opportunity of robbery to others. This they do too in the full knowledge of the purpose for which they are asked to retire. When the crash comes they may say they did not know the purpose of the purchasers, but they did know they were to receive for their stock two or three times its value, and that no man could afford to pay such a price to obtain control of the company except for the purpose of making money by irregular and questionable means. It will not do for men entrusted with positions of a fiduciary character to make the holding of such positions the lever for obtaining a large price for their stock, and then claim exemption from responsibility for the misdeeds of their successors. They were there in charge of a sacred trust, and they have sold and betrayed that trust—for what? Why, for the enhanced price which they got for their stock. This is the great evil of the close corporation system. It enables one or more men to own complete control of a company and to sell it to the highest bidder. Of course the highly respectable gentlemen who sell, and those also who buy, will be shocked at having imputed to them any crime or breach of trust. But how can such sums of money be lawfully made out of life insurance stock as to justify the price the records of the Committee on Insurance show have been paid for it? Life insurance is or ought to be a benevolent institution. Its management is or ought to be a trust, and every trustee who makes use of his position to make money for himself is false to his trust, and should never be appointed to another. Life insurance is not to be made the sport of speculators, and the only reliance of the unfortunate made the football of gambling operations. Most if not all of the troubles which have arisen in the business are to be traced to this attempt to make money out of it, honestly if possible, but to make money at all hazards. The way to end this for ever is to allow the policy-holders to vote, not for a minority of the trustees, but for all of them. Representation should be equal, or it is worthless. The representation which would leave the power to elect a majority still in the hands of the stock-holders is not equal or just. Money paid for premiums is as good as money paid for stock, and should have equal voice in the management. But when you have given the policy-holders votes, you should also see that the opportunity was afforded to them of voting. Most of the elections are held without any other notice than an advertisement in the corner of a crowded column of one or two newspapers. Every policy should have printed on it the date of the annual election, and all the information necessary to enable the holder to be present and vote, or to be represented by proxy. Under the present practice, few holders of policies know whether they have votes or not, and hardly any of them ever heard of the time of holding the election. If the present discussion of life insurance affairs does no other good than to awaken the policy-holders to a sense of their own responsibility for abuses of management, it will not have been in vain. It is safe to say that watchfulness on their part would have prevented the lavish expenditures, the unwise real estate investments, the enormous salaries, which the investigation of the Assembly committee has discovered. The same conservative power held over managers would be a constant check upon any tendency to depart from the safe and regular open pathway of honorable dealings. Under its influence there would be few if any cases of commissions in addition to salary of officers, less tendency to make loans to the trustees and their friends, and a general adhesion to business rules and traditions. But above and beyond all other reforms, the control of the company by the policy-holders would make it impossible for greedy and scoundrel officers to gather into their hands the entire control of the company, and then sell it out to a rival company for four or five times what the stock cost, and an annuity for life to the traitor who had betrayed his trust. This has been, is now, and will be, if not prevented, the fruitful mother of all the ills of life insurance. Just as soon as any clique get possession of the majority of the stock, there is danger. Nay, there is always danger; any clique may, at any time, get possession of the stock by paying enough for it. If one price will not bring it, another will, and the value to the wrecker depends upon the amount of assets. It is the assets which are to pay the profit of the transaction. The money of the policy-holders is what is sold, not the mere pittance which belongs to the stock-holders, and it is the money of the policy-holders which is stolen to pay the purchase money. Honorable gentlemen, prominent in social life, elders, deacons, and vestrymen who in the past few years have quietly pocketed two hundred for your stock and retired from the management of life insurance companies, how are you pleased with your own conduct? In the light of recent disclosures, does not the ill-gotten money burn in your pockets? Truly you would not wreck a company yourselves by transferring it to any man or number of men; but you accomplish the same purpose by retiring. A captain who will not himself surrender to the enemy, but who retires from the command of his fortification knowing that the subaltern who will succeed him intends to strike his flag, may deceive himself, but he does not long succeed in deceiving any one else.

The evidence taken before the referee in the Continental case fully describes and explains the methods of wrecking. A company is sold out or reinsured in another; that is, the stock has been bought up at two or three hundred per centum, the officers have been promised good places, or paid in cash for their silence. Immediately the operations of the wreckers begin. The agents of both companies go into the work with a single aim, and that aim is to obtain the surrender of the policies in the old company in exchange for new policies in the purchasing corporation. The old policies represent an actual liability; the company which has issued them is obliged to hold a certain sum against each of them. The aggregate of these sums makes up the "reserve" or reinsurance fund. As fast as the old policies are cancelled this reserve is released, and when all the policies are cancelled there is no liability at all. The new policies of course have no liability. This is in short the whole operation of wrecking. By such means a million or two of assets will be distributed, and in the process the policy-holders will receive a little—a very little—and the agents a good deal, and the officers composing the ring all that is left. The arts, the deceptions, the false representations made in the course of the proceeding to induce the policy-holder to give up his policy have been fully disclosed by the evidence in question. Of course it is suggested that the company is in a bad way, and that there is probably no other way of securing anything unless an opportunity now offered of changing is embraced.

Reinsurance was abandoned as a means of wrecking because it was found the policy-holders preferred to keep the old policy and the new guarantee together. So in the later transactions they are told that if they do not change, they will get nothing.

The lesson of all this to the policy-holder may be written in large letters and kept as a maxim:


You will never make a mistake by keeping to this motto. And particularly the more should it be kept to when you are urged by agents to a contrary action. You never get one-third its value even in companies honestly managed; what you get in companies dishonestly managed no one can tell.




Is it not written that good Americans, when they die, go to Paris? So Elysium to all righteous sons of Cockayne is Brussels. And yet I was weary of it. No charms for me had the perpetual sabots and blouses, the braves Belges in jaunty uniform, the bejewelled saunterers in the Galerie St. Hubert, the gauche tourists desecrating the sombre stillness of the St. Gudule, la belle Anglaise seeing for the first time the outrageous little manikin, the homely phaëton of good old King Leopold with its pair of very unroyal plugs, the tirailleurs in Lincoln green, the Parc with its music, fountains and maitrank, the Jardin des Plantes, the boulevard, and the Ecole d'Equitation.

All lost on me. I stood at a window of the Hôtel de Flandres gazing on the ever-moving panorama of the Grande Place with as little interest as though my eye rested on a vacant lot in Pumpkinville.

Was it bile? No. Was it love? Yes.

Another scene was ever before my eyes: An old red-brick house on the cliffs of Devonshire, half hid by giant oaks and elms, fragrant with honeysuckle and jessamine, stately with avenue, lawn, and rookery; and I saw leaning on the rustic gate beneath the chestnut trees Gwendoline Grey: her straw hat dangling by her side, her fresh young face set in a glory of light brown hair, her—— But it had all passed away now. The light was gone out of my life, for but three days ago I had received a letter from her mother deploring my altered prospects, returning my billets and love tokens, and assuring me that Gwendoline acquiesced in this painful decision.

My altered prospects—hinc illæ lacrymæ. Nine months ago I was heir to a wealthy man, and now I was but bear-leader to the son of the Earl of Tottenbridge. Upon the loss of my father's property, which had come like an avalanche on us, I had left college and assumed the tutorship of the Hon. Nigel Fairleigh, as good a lad as ever handled a cricket bat.

After a brief run through southern Europe, I had just delivered him up to his aunt, my lady Milton, who was to take him to Scotland, while I was free, according to compact, to enjoy a couple of months' vacation.

How I had longed for this vacation—and now, where to go, what to do, I knew not. For three days I had stayed with a dull uncertainty on the spot where the blow had fallen on me.

My meditations were broken by the entrance of a garçon announcing,

"A gentleman for monsieur."

"Ah, M. Danneris, I am glad to see you. Be seated."

To say how I became acquainted with the chatty little Frenchman who sat before me would be a difficult matter. The offer of a cigar, an exchange of newspapers at the reading room, a passing bon jour on the stairs, had ripened under his friendly gayety into a familiarity which had extended so far as to my passing more than one evening at his snug office in the Rue des Allumettes, where François Danneris, advocate, spun toils for litigious Flemish bourgeoises.

"My friend," he said, "you look ennuyé, triste, dull; you need change. What do you say to a scamper over the continent?"

"I have done scampering enough lately," I replied, "and moreover my funds——"

"Tiens, mon ami. Do not talk of money. It is my great happiness to offer you an opportunity to combine business with pleasure, and take a most delightful trip without the expenditure of a sou."

"You surprise me—and where?"

"To a beautiful manorial residence at the village of Kioske, twenty miles beyond Buda, on the banks of the Danube—one of the most romantic spots of eastern Europe."

"And the object?"

"To take temporary charge of the only son of the wealthy Baron von Dressdorf. Jules von Dressdorf," added the advocate in his bland, pleasant way, "is a boy of fifteen, who, after spending a year in an academy in England, has been placed in a pension in Brussels; but, hélas! an hereditary disease, which has developed itself more strongly of late, has determined his father to recall him immediately. Pericardiac, my dear sir—pericardiac; and it is most important that he should without delay seek the quiet of his native valley."

"The terms?"

"Two hundred and fifty francs a week, and all expenses paid. When could you start?"

"To-morrow—to-day—when you will."

"Bien! There is a little difficulty I would mention; the journey is not without small perils. Hungary, as you are aware, is now under the ban of an Austrian tyranny."

I assured him of my sympathy.

"Hold," he cried. "It is exactly that you have no sympathy that I select you. The Baron is already suspect, and the son, inheriting his father's sentiments, has small discretion of speech. Keep Austria in the background, I implore you."

"And are you sure that the Baron will approve of your choice of an escort?"

"The mere fact, Monsieur Mortimer, that you were in the service—I beg your pardon—in the family of the Earl of Tottenbridge would be sufficient, but I am proud to say that the recommendation of François Danneris would be a carte blanche to any one to the confidence of Baron Dressdorf. He is a noble man," he added with emotion, "and to him I owe all I have in the world."

And then for half an hour the advocate poured into my ear the glories of the house of Dressdorf and stories of Austrian oppression that made me eager to serve his protégé. Nay, I was so interested in his case that I believe I would have seen the youth home, if I had had to bear all the expenses of the journey myself.

"Have you a passport?"

"It is here," I said, handing it to him—"a Foreign Office passport that protects me all over the continent."

"Ah, I see. And this permit?"

"Ah, that belongs to my pupil, Nigel Fairleigh. We can cut that off. Lady Milton should have had it with her, but they are not very strict at Ostend, and I suppose her rank proved an open sesame."

"Black eyes," he read, "black hair, sharp features, high forehead, height, five feet three. My dear Monsieur Mortimer," and he turned eagerly toward me, "you would do me a real service, you would lay the noble Dressdorf under the greatest obligation, if you would permit our young charge to use this passport. It describes him to a T. The critical nature of events, the necessity for caution, the delicate health of the boy—nay, do not look shocked; such things are done every day—will excuse the trifling impropriety——"


Taking no notice of the interruption, he continued. "And to tell the truth, it was just this that bothered me. A Belgian passport is looked upon with much suspicion, and is likely to lead to inquiry; but armed with this, you may go from here to the Oural mountains without a question."

At first I refused point-blank, but at last resigned myself to his sophistry, and the bargain was closed.

"When can I see the youth?" I asked.

"Now, monsieur. I will at once escort you to the pension of the Porte de Schaerbeck, and introduce him to you."

Fifty boys of Belgian, French, American, and English extraction, seated at a long table enjoying their afternoon's "goûté"—a post-meridian lunch of weak brandy-and-water and grapes; a bald maître d'école periodically crying, "Si-i-i-lence, messieurs. Restez-vous tranquilles!" like a sheriff in a court of law. Such a scene met my view. I recognized my youth in a moment; there was no mistaking the clear, well-defined features, raven hair, and black eyes of the gentle lad who rose to greet my companion with a grace and assurance that checked remonstrance on the part of the half-offended usher, who simply solaced himself with a shrug of the shoulders and a more than usually prolonged "Si-i-i-i-i-lence, messieurs. Restez-vous tranquilles!"

"This is the gentleman, Jules, who has kindly consented to take you home, and it is arranged that you start to-morrow," said the advocate.

The boy's big eyes looked into mine with an inquiring gaze, and then, taking my hand, he quaintly said:

"I like you."

There was nothing impertinent in the tone or manner; it was the hearty expression of his unsophisticated thought.

"He is an Englishman," continued M. Danneris, "and will be very kind to you. Remember that you owe him respect and implicit obedience."

"Then he hates the Austrians—he whose country is free knows how to give sympathy to a poor Hungarian. This good Englishman shall see for himself how our noble people suffer at the hands of tyrants."

"Hush, hush, Jules! You must not talk like this. Is it not extraordinary," said M. Danneris, turning to me, "that even the very children of this oppressed race fill their minds with a sense of wrong?"

"No wonder," I replied, "if but half you have told me is true."

"When I am a man," flashed Jules, "I will kill the Austrians—they are not worthy to live."

"Jules," I said soothingly, "I am just going for a stroll over the fields toward Louvain. Ask permission from monsieur, your professor, to join me."

Danneris smiled. "That was well done," he said. "You cannot too soon become acquainted. Call here for the boy to-morrow midday. I will see that he is prepared."

When I said adieu to Jules that evening, after a long ramble over the endless corn fields that bordered the "road to Waterloo," I saw with pleasure that I had awakened in him a generous confidence. He too had, by his artless manner, inspired in me no common interest.

We started. Six days' journey to reach Vienna, a hundred-mile trip up the Danube to Buda, seven leagues in a calèche, and we should be at Dressdorf Castle.

Uneventful the days were. Poor Jules, weary with travel, talked but little, for which I was appropriately thankful. It was painful to see how he shrank from the gaze of any official who might question us a little closely as to our destination, and to watch his quivering lips as he muttered in response to my assurances of safety, "I trust all to the good Englishman."

As we neared the Austrian frontier he harped more on the subject of his Austrian wrongs, and I was frequently obliged to check him. A fire seemed consuming the boy, a burning vengeance toward the oppressor.

We reached Vienna at dusk on the sixth day, and put up at the Hôtel d'Hollande, according to the suggestions of Danneris. Jules complained of sick headache, and I was somewhat relieved to hear him suggest bed.

It was not till I had seen him safely settled, and had extracted a promise from him not to leave his room, that I felt at liberty to call a few hours my own.

Having dined, I stood on the doorstep of the hotel smoking a cigar and revolving in my mind where I should spend my evening, when I was accosted by a police agent making some inquiry about my passport.

"By the way," said I, "I never was in Austria before, but in France I have been accustomed to give a gensdarme a couple of francs to take my passport to the bureau of the police to be visé."

"Herr Engländer can pursue the same plan here," was the polite rejoinder. "I shall be happy to oblige him."

Glad to be relieved of the bother, I handed him the document. He briefly compared my person with the description, and then queried:

"And the boy?"

"He is sick and has retired; but if you desire it, you shall see him."

"No need—a boy is no great matter"; and the courteous official, with a bow that would have graced a D'Orsay, was gone.

To the Grand Opera House, the largest in the world, I bent my steps, and in an hour was revelling in Mme. Garcia's thrilling notes, when a hand was laid on my shoulder and a grim, moustached, soldier-like fellow whispered in my ear:

"Your passport, Herr Engländer."

"It is gone to the police bureau to be visé. I sent it from the Hôtel d'Hollande by an officer."

For the moment he withdrew, and burning with shame, for every eye was upon me, I turned defiantly to the stage.

"Will the Herr ride or walk?" came again the voice in my ear.

"What do you mean?"

"The Herr must go immediately to the Hôtel d'Hollande. That is all."

I expostulated, but a storm of hisses from those near enough to be interrupted in their enjoyment of the music decided me, and I angrily rose.

"I am at your service, sir."

We walked on without a word.

Never shall I forget the face of the fat little Dutch landlord as we entered—surprise, sympathy, fear alternately lighting his countenance as he poured forth a polyglot expression of his excited feelings. In French, English, Dutch, and German he assured us he was desolated, miserable, abandoned. Ah, but it was a good young Engländer. It was true he had never seen the passport; he knew he should have asked for it himself when his noble friend first came to the house; but, bête brouillant that he was, he had forgotten it.

Then followed a conference between the landlord and the officer, resulting in my being called aside by the former and receiving the following valuable advice:

"My dear sir, you have made a most never-to-be-sufficiently deplored mistake. But see. Satisfy this zealous officer with a bottle of good Stein wine, and all will be well in the morning; only do not leave the house again to-night."

It was a bitter pill, but I swallowed it gracefully, and Herr Polizeidiener and I clicked glasses fraternally with protestations of mutual regard.

In the morning I was awakened by Jules, whose night's rest had done him a world of good. Bright, vivacious, and noisy, he bounded into my room.

"Oh, Herr Mortimer, such an idea! There is a grand review of the soldiery. Come, get up. We must go and see it. I would not miss it for the world."

"Do not be so excited, Jules; it is the last place to which I would dream of taking you. Your father——"

"Wrote me not to fail to see the Austrian troops if I had an opportunity."

Perhaps there was some object in that, and to Jules's delight I consented to take seats on the lumbering stage-coach that was to leave the hotel with other guests bent on the same holiday excursion. I was the more complacent as I reflected that the steamer did not leave Vienna till five o'clock, and I thus saw a means of keeping Jules out of further mischief.

We reached the review ground. It was indeed a gorgeous scene. Crimson and gold, blue and silver flashed back the sun's rays, bugles sounded, and cannon roared.

I was not quite at my ease, however, as I noticed the interest I was exciting in a resplendent official, whose eyes were continually on me. At last, to my dismay, he beckoned to me.

"Sir, your passport?"

"It is gone to the bureau to be visé," and then followed a pathetic recital of the annoyances I had been subjected to.

"Will the Herr ride or walk?" was the stereotyped response.


"To Vienna. Until this passport is found the Herr must consider himself under arrest."

In vain I pleaded the unprotected position of my young companion. All the concession I could get was permission to speak a few words with him, which I did with much caution, simply assuring him of my speedy return, and extracting his promise that, if I were detained by my "friend," he would return with the fiacre to the hotel, and quietly await my arrival.

"I will do all the good Englishman asks of me"; and a warm pressure of the hand made me feel that Jules understood the extremity of the case.

At once to the bureau.

I was so confident of finding the passport and utterly confounding the officer who had given me all this trouble, that I am afraid my manner was rather supercilious, to say the least of it.

The commissaire heard my story somewhat impatiently.

"The officer's number to whom you say you gave your passport?"

"I did not notice it."

"His name?"

"I never demanded it."

A grin on the face of the commissaire, a very sarcastic curl of the lip, a shrug of the shoulders, an ominous silence.

"Sir," said I, somewhat sobered by the course events had taken, "I am a British subject!"


"A graduate of the University of Oxford."


"Tutor in the family of the Earl of Tottenbridge."


"Son of a county magistrate."

"Zo? And nevertheless you are arrested for wandering about like a rogue and vagabond without a passport. We know not who you are, what you are, where you come from. The question with us is, Where is your passport? It is enough." And before I could reply his back was turned.

A whitewashed room, sixteen feet square, one barred window, one iron bedstead, one wooden bench—such was my apartment and the inventory of its furniture; and I felt my heart sink as the key in the door turned with an ominous click, and I was left to enjoy my solitary meditations.

What could I do? For an hour I racked my brain. Dared I apply to the English embassy? I would, come what might of it. A few blows on the panel of my door brought the officer.

"I wish to make immediate application to Lord Cowley."

"I will see."

He returned in a few minutes.

"Lord Cowley is not in Vienna now. He is at the Grand Baths."

"Still, there is somebody at the embassy office. I must go there."

After a brief interview with his superior, the permission was accorded.

The officer and I reached the embassy building, and as I passed the jovial English porter at the door, my heart rose, for already I felt the shadow of the British lion over me.

A pale, emaciated, gentlemanly youth, with a gold eyeglass, was standing with his back to the fire, reading a copy of the "Times," while at his feet lay a magnificent bull-and-mastiff, by far the more dignified animal of the two. The exquisite gave no sign of his knowledge of our presence.


No attention.

The dog yawned, the great clock on the wall ticked with an aggravating loudness, and at last I broke out—

"Sir, I am in a terrible dilemma. I have lost my passport. I trusted it to a rascally policeman to take to the bureau to get visé, and now I am apprehended, put in a miserable prison, called a rogue and vagabond by a confounded commissaire." The effect of my eloquence on the attaché was amusing. Down went the paper.

"Oh, I say—you know—you mustn't—indeed, you mustn't. The office can't be approached in this manner—very irregular, by Jove, very irregular."

"What must I do? The consequences may be fearful——"

"Write to Lord John Russell at the F. O. If he knows anything about you, you can petition Lord Cowley, and in the course of a few weeks——"

"A few weeks! a cycle of years! I must be liberated at once. The safety, nay, the very life of a helpless boy depends upon it."

"Oh, I say, you know, you mustn't get so excited, by Jove, you know; you mustn't indeed. Very irregular—'pon honor, I never saw such irregularity."

The Adam was aroused in me—I couldn't help it.

"Sir!" I roared, "you are here for the protection of the British subject——"

"No, you know," he interrupted. "Consul, that sort of thing. By Jove, never saw such a fellow."

"You are placed here for use or ornament. You are, sir, a failure in either capacity."

"John!"—oh, the superciliously grand air of that little mite!—"John, show this person the door!"


Once more in prison.

Another hour's mental rack, another resource—send for the landlord of the Hôtel d'Hollande.

He came.

I fancy I see before me now the paunchy Dutchman, rubbing his fat hands and condoling with me in hybrid accents.

"But now, Herr Engländer, an inspiration!" He approached me, placed his pursy lips to my ears, and whispered: "Offer—delicately as you can—but offer the commissaire a few of your English gold pieces, and see the passport, he return, he come back—vite, quick. Voilà tout."

"Bribe the commissaire?"

"Hush! yes, it is your only chance."

Heavens! what a country! Well might poor Jules rave at the Austrians!

The Dutchman left, and after a few minutes' hesitation, I summoned up courage to knock at the door, which was promptly opened by the officer, who respectfully demanded my requirements.

"I wish to see the commissaire."

"Surely. Will the Herr follow me?"

Where were the frowns gone? The commissaire received me in a most gracious manner. Would I be seated?

"Sir," I stammered, for it went sorely against the grain, "my carelessness has brought me into considerable trouble, and I feel that with your aid alone I can rectify matters. At the same time I am aware that I should pay some penalty for my lack of discretion. If therefore you would give these five sovereigns to some charitable institution in Vienna, and use some effort to find my passport, you will lay me under a great obligation."

The great official said he would do so, and the English sovereigns chinked in his capacious vest-pocket.

"And now, if the Herr will go to his hotel, all Vienna shall be searched. The passport cannot be lost, and in a few hours it shall be in his hands."

Free! It was the only time I was ever under lock and key, but I shall never forget the exhilarating delight of that moment.

I had hardly gone twenty rods when I remembered that the boat left at five o'clock, and I thought that I would return and tell the commissaire to hurry up.

As I opened the door of the bureau I saw him deliberately take from a pigeon-hole my passport, and handing it to the agent, say, "Here, take this stupid Englishman his passport!"

"Sir," I said, stepping forward, "I will relieve you of the trouble."

Not a blush, not an apology. With a profusion of compliments and hopes for my bon voyage, the commisaaire graciously bowed me out, and with all haste I sought the Hôtel d'Hollande.

The fiacre was just driving up to the door as I arrived. I saw it all in one moment. The boy was not there.

I questioned the driver and passengers. It appeared that Jules had left the carriage shortly after my departure, and as three hours had elapsed before their return to Vienna, they concluded that he had joined me.

My excitement threw the landlord into a further convulsion of hand-rubbing and general perplexity.

"Get me a strong saddle horse," I impetuously demanded.

"It shall be at the door in five minutes. Will not the Herr dine before he leaves?"

"Dine! No; but let me have a flask of brandy."

Out through the paved streets to the plain. I scoured the whole country round, peered into every carriage, searched every bush and brier, rode up and down the neighboring lanes and highways, inquired of all I met, and only trotted back to Vienna when darkness came on and my jaded horse could hardly bear me home.

Then I ate and drank, and, taking a calèche, visited every police station and hospital in Vienna. All in vain; and at three o'clock in the morning I threw myself on my bed to snatch a few hours' sleep ere my search should be again renewed.

I will not dwell upon the horrors of that time. Day succeeded day, and nearly a week passed in my frantic efforts to discover the whereabouts of the poor young Hungarian. How my heart bled for the gentle boy, perhaps languishing in an Austrian dungeon and calling on the good Englishman to rescue him. I lived a year in that week. At last I resolved to telegraph to M. Danneris. "Jules is lost. For God's sake, come at once," flashed along the wires. The answer was equally terse. The operator at Brussels replied, "Danneris gone. Left no address."

Was ever anything so unfortunate? Ah, yes, he did talk of visiting England, and that was the reason he could not himself escort Jules home.

Then I knew that I must brace my nerves to the terrible effort of telling that poor father that his child was lost; that I, by my cursed carelessness, had been the destroyer of his peace.

"Your son has mysteriously disappeared from my charge. Hasten here."

The answer was more perplexing than the one from Brussels: "Baron von Dressdorf not known—no such place as Kioske."

Heavens! Was I in a dream?

For three weeks I continued my search, wandering about in a haggard, broken manner, dreading every day to be stricken with brain fever. I could not sleep for thinking of the poor lad, whose big, pleading eyes seemed to look up into mine from every side. He haunted me.

One day I was watching the crowd pass the corner of the Thun Strasse, when my hand was clasped, and a cheery voice rang in my ear:

"Mortimer, old fellow, by all that's glorious! Who would ever have thought of meeting you here?"

It was Harvey Lawson, my old college chum.

"But you are sick, man. You look clean out of condition. Come up into my den—mind those stairs—here you are—take that arm-chair. You see I'm 'own correspondent' to the 'Daily Growler.' There's a pipe. Will you have beer or wine? And, now, what have you been doing with yourself?"

I told him all, and my story certainly awakened much interest in him.

"What was the date of your leaving Brussels?"

"Wednesday, September 17."

"Just a month ago. Hand me that file of papers at your elbow."

He selected one, glanced at it a moment. "Ah, yes, here it is."

"What?" I cried eagerly, the blood flying to my face.

"What was the name of the advocate?" he persisted with all the gravity of a judge.

"Auguste Danneris."

"And his office, 170 Rue des Allumettes?"

"Yes, yes!"

"The pension in the Porte de Schaerbeck?"


"The youth—black eyes, black hair, high forehead, projecting chin, height five feet three?"


"Spoke English well?"

"Remarkably well for a foreigner—and so young."

"Had a slight impediment in pronouncing the letter p."

"Yes, I tried to correct the dear boy of the habit."

"Did, eh?"

"I did, and with some success too."

"And went by the name of Jules von Dressdorf?"


"Then, by the lord Harry! Master Mortimer, you've immortalized yourself. You've abducted the most accomplished little dame d'industrie Paris ever produced—you've snatched from under the very noses of a cordon of French and Flemish police the princess of adventuresses, Adèle de la Voix, spy, thief, forger—ay, and if suspicion points truly, murderess—for she is believed to have poisoned an accomplice at Ghent after consummating the robbery of the Comtesse de Nemour's jewels. A pretty piece of business truly."

I was dazed. He handed me the journal, and I read for myself the whole of the infamous plot.

"By George, that boarding-school dodge was an excellent one, worthy of her greatness—threw the police off the scent for ten days," said Harvey with a grin.

"Then, when the police got on the right track again," he continued, "it was too late; she had eloped with you. O Lord, it's too good," and he lay back in his chair and roared.

"By heavens, if you are not quiet, I'll pitch you out of the window."

"No, you won't. If you move a finger, I'll write and tell Gwennie Grey all about your elopement. Why, man, if you were a child of grace, you'd go down on your knees and implore me not to give you two columns in the 'Growler.' There, I was only joking. Don't look so blue. But I confess it's a strong temptation. Such sensations don't crop up every day; besides, messieurs the police are dying to know how la belle Adèle crossed the frontier."

"Do you think," I said wearily, "that the proprietor of the pension was an accomplice?"

"Most assuredly not. He is an old resident, and gave his testimony with tears in his eyes, assuring the court that Jules von Dressdorf was one of the most docile, intelligent pupils he ever had under his roof."

"And M. Danneris?"

"Her father, I believe. His rôle was the man of reference, the respectable 'fence' who directs the game while others do the work."

"Had my trouble with the police here anything to do with the matter?"

"Not a bit of it. They are infernal rascals, reaping where they do not sow, and looking on careless travellers as legitimate game. Under the present régime they make half their living out of passport irregularities."

"I suppose," I added, "I had better notify the police at Brussels."

"And be the laughing stock of Europe for your pains. No, Mortimer, lie quiet here for a week or two, then take steamer through the Mediterranean home. By the by, did Danneris advance you money for the journey?"

"He gave me five hundred francs."

"Then you are not so badly off after all. Make your mind easy about Mlle. Adèle. She is hundreds of miles away by this."

"I wonder why she did not run away from the hotel the night I went to the theatre."

"Quien sabe? Let the dead past bury its dead."


Seventeen years have passed since the occurrence of the events I have recorded, and never till yesterday have I seen or heard one word of Adèle de la Voix.

"Gwennie," said I to my dear little wife, on reaching my home in southern Michigan after a visit on business to Detroit, "you remember the heroine of my trip to Dressdorf castle, just before we were married?"

"Surely," said the wife.

"Well, I saw Adèle de la Voix yesterday."

"You didn't! When? Where?"

"At a store in Gratiot avenue. I was making a purchase, when a woman entered—old-looking, homely, shabby; but there was no mistaking those black eyes, nor the sniff of the left nostril. When she was gone, I made some inquiries about her, and here is her business card:

"Mme. Julienne, from Paris, reveals the past, the present, and the future. Can be consulted on all affairs of love, business, or law, and overcomes trouble of any kind. She brings together the separated, causes speedy marriages, and sells infallible love powders. Go and see for yourself. No humbug here.

"Rooms, etc."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Do? I don't know."

"I do."

"You wise woman, what is it?"

"Write the whole story for your favorite magazine. It is as interesting as half the fiction one reads, and contains a good moral."



A thousand strong we marched to battle;

The city roared around the host;

The tambours crashed their vaunting rattle;

The bugles screamed their joyous boast.

No thought had we to die asunder,

Companions sworn, a brother throng;

We looked to sweep through battle's thunder

In noble lines, a thousand strong.

But ah, the fever's poisoned arrow!

The jungle's breath, the summer's glow!

Our broad array grew swiftly narrow,

And scanty hundreds met the foe.

O splendid longings, thoughts and fancies

Which tread the city of the soul,

How few of all your spirit-lances

Arrive where duty's trumpets roll!

J. W. De Forest.




It is the cheerful verdict of all anglers that they find no other pastime so fascinating. This conclusion is not based upon the mere mechanism of the art, but upon the fact that it is eminently healthful, rational, and elevating, blending the picturesque and exhilarating in such equal proportions as to exactly meet the demands of the quiet student, the contemplative philosopher, and the care-worn man of business, whose wearied or exhausted nature covets just the solitude and repose which no other recreation so abundantly furnishes.

This of course could not be said of angling if it had no other attraction than the excitement it affords. But I am sure no one ever became an enthusiastic angler who had no other or higher conceptions of its possibilities. The mere act of taking fish is but a minor note in the full volume of harmony which comes to its appreciative disciples amid the vast solitudes where they find their best sport and highest pleasure. Ask any true angler what pictures come up most vividly before him as "the time of the singing of birds" draweth nigh, when it is right to "go a-fishing." His answer will not be, "The rise and strike of trout or salmon," although both will pass upon the canvas like rays of sunshine upon the quiet repose of a forest landscape. He will rather discourse to you of flowing river, of murmuring brook, of cloud-capped mountain, of waving forest, of sunshine and shadow, of rapid and cascade, of tent and camp fire, of silence and solitude, of cozy nook, of undisturbed repose, of refreshing slumber, of invigorated health, and the abandon of delight which neither word nor pencil can adequately portray. I have heard such "simple wise men" talk of their favorite pastime until they glowed with ecstasy, without once naming fish or fishing. That is but the body of the art. Its spirit consists in what is seen and felt. An angler, "born so," as Walton hath it, retains a more vivid recollection of the foam-encircled pool where salmon love to congregate than of the "rise" and "strike" which gave him his early morning's exhilaration. While he soon forgets the "play" and weight of the fish captured, he never forgets the picturesque surroundings of the struggle. He may forget the last homily he read, or the last sermon to which he listened, but never the thrill of devout ecstasy which came to him while wandering along some forest pathway, or while gently floating with the current of his favorite river, bathed in sunshine and fanned by summer zephyrs. After many days, these blissful moments come back to him like divine benedictions. Be sure, O carping critic, the gentle art has its spiritual and æsthetic as well as its physical and intellectual attributes.

As a mere physical pastime, angling stands foremost among all the known sources of pleasurable recreation. It blends active exercise with fascinating excitement in such healthful proportions as to ensure the fortunate participant equally against wearisome monotony and excessive fatigue. The pure mountain air in which he is constantly enveloped is a perpetual tonic, while the exercise it compels gives steadiness to the nerves and solidity to the muscles.

As a mental renovator it is equally effective. There can be no protracted lassitude while the brain is constantly quickened into refreshing vitality by the novel and exhilarating surroundings of mountain and forest and river, and the rise and strike and struggle of trout or salmon.

And to those who have neither physical nor mental ailment, but who are conscious of a spiritual need—of some more vivid appreciation of the goodness and beneficence of the Heavenly Father than most men attain unto while writhing under the harrow of business or bewildered by the shallow superficialities or noisy clatter of artificial life—the quiet places where the pursuit of the gentle art takes them, the silence and shadow of the sombre forest, the twitter and song of the solitary woodbird, the clear shining stars, which hang like silver lamps above his tent or cabin, and the reposeful hush which comes to his soul like whispered benedictions—these all tend to intensify his gratitude, to quicken his spiritual pulse, and to give to him a higher and a keener appreciation of his spiritual obligations.

There may be those who engage in angling only as they engage in the coarser amusements which, for a time, divert the mind and banish ennui. But all such soon weary of it, and never reach the higher plane of the pleasant pastime. To do so requires a placid temper, a thoughtful if not a poetic appreciation of the picturesque, a moderate love of solitude, a patient habit, and a quiet disposition. To find delectation in his walks, the angler need not be an ascetic or a stickler for creeds; but I do not think the heart of Gallio, who "cared for none of these things," would have been made glad when "the voice of the turtle was heard in the land," and it was right to "go a-fishing," because I cannot imagine him a man of a teachable disposition or of a lovable nature, who took pleasure in the society or teachings of the gentle Master of the Galilean fishermen. Izaak Walton might have had equal skill with rod and reel without his saintly faith; but his "Complete Angler" never would have attained the high place it has held and will ever hold in the affections of the contemplative men of all time had he not been imbued with the spirit of reverent humility and such a loving sense of the Infinite Beneficence as to find in all the beauty and sublimity of Nature evidence of His great goodness and loving kindness to the children of men. He may not, like Enoch, have "walked with God," but in all his walks he saw God's handiwork; and this consciousness multiplied many fold the pleasure he sought and always found in the pursuit of his favorite recreation.



There are times and seasons for salmon fishing as for all things. But all times and all seasons are not alike. Nor are all places. The best time to fish for salmon, where salmon are to be fished for, is the first hour the water is in condition; that is, as soon as the spring freshets have subsided, and the water, by falling back into its natural channel, has become freed from the surface rubbish washed into it, and sufficiently settled to render your line visible to the eye of the fish. This time varies on different rivers, according to their length, their volume, and the character of the soil through which they flow. On some rivers the drainage is so limited that a fly may be cast successfully so soon as the ice disappears. There are, however, but few rivers on either side the Gulf, or in either of the Provinces, where the best fishing is attainable before the first of June. The "season" continues from that time on to the middle of August, although there is often good sport into September, when the last "run" begin their journey. But no "posted" angler would care to be compelled to take the chances of sport after the close of August, as only very few fish come up from the sea later, and those remaining in the river are wearied from their long journeyings, or are torpid from their protracted absence from the sea.

Within the period named—June to the middle of August—salmon are gamy and muscular, wherever found, whether one or fifty miles from the ocean. But the pools most coveted are those in closest proximity to salt water. Salmon are at their best when they begin their upward journey. The fresh element in which they find themselves seems to give them new life and friskiness, and when hooked they fight with a strength and fierceness not exhibited in the same measure afterward. A twenty-pound salmon fresh from the sea gives you the play of a thirty-pound fish taken weeks after he has made his way far up toward the headwaters of a fifty or a hundred-mile river.

This fact, however, is not only not perceptible to the novice, but the sport furnished by the capture of a salmon at any point in a river, or at any stage of his sojourn in fresh water, is so grandly exhilarating and so full of the intensest excitement, that it is a matter of but trifling moment where a fish is struck so long as the angler strikes him.

But the season is important. The earlier weeks on any river are to be preferred, not alone because the fish have more vitality, but because, as a rule, they are more abundant. With an unerring instinct which is as mysterious as it is wonderful, they seek the rivers where they were born upon the return of every spring. If the rivers are in condition for their ascent, they begin their journey at once. But the rivers are not always in this condition when salmon first come to them; and if they are not, they wait their opportunity, and then move forward with the regularity and steadiness of an army under marching orders. Hence they are ordinarily found in greatest numbers at the first rush; and they are most fortunate who are duly placed, at favorite pools, to bid them welcome.

What I know of this phase of salmon angling I have learned from experience and observation, under circumstances which enable me to speak with more confidence than would be otherwise becoming. I have fished for three years on what I believe to be one of the very best rivers on the continent; best not merely because of the abundance and weight of its fish, but because also of its size and length, the magnificence of its scenery, and the great number of its splendid pools. My first two seasons extended from July 10 to August 10; and they are seasons which will be for ever remembered with delight. I did not deem it possible that I should ever experience any higher pleasure this side that "pure river of water, clear as crystal," which fills so large a place in the entrancing picture of the bright hereafter. My catch exceeded my highest expectations, the sport from first to last was magnificent and kingly, and the river, and the scenery, and the surroundings embodied so much of beauty and grandeur, that my cup of joy was filled to overflowing. If I had left the river with no other knowledge than I then possessed of what had been and of what might be, I would have lived on content with the happy impression that I had experienced the highest possibilities of the gentle art. Every hour was an hour of sunshine—whether casting, or striking, or killing—whether slowly ascending or swiftly schuting the rapids—whether shouting in very ecstasy of delight or quietly discoursing of the pleasures of angling, around the camp fire, grateful to a kind Providence which had "cast my lines in such pleasant places," and filled with devout thanksgiving that time and opportunity had been given me to understand why the good men, and the thoughtful men, and the simple wise men of all ages had written so enthusiastically and sung so glowingly of the gentle art.

But, while thus pluming myself upon what I had achieved and experienced, fancying that I had reached the highest pleasure attainable from the art of angling, I learned that while I had done well I could do much better earlier in the season. And so I found; for by a combination of circumstances as fortunate as they were gratifying, my third season gave me the first "run" and such experience and sport as will for ever remain a golden memory.



With a companion as venerable in years and as full of enthusiasm as myself, we set our faces toward the bay of Chaleur on as bright and beautiful a June morning as ever gladdened the world. Hitherto the journey had been tedious and circuitous—by rail and steamer. But, like the world in general, the Provinces are progressive, and on this occasion an "all-rail" route enabled us to do in two days what it formerly took six to accomplish, and the 10th of June found us encamped in a beautiful valley encircled by magnificent mountains, with a majestic river at our feet grandly marching to the sea, but in unwelcome volume and raging with frightful turbulence. The melted snow was pouring down from the hills in such torrents as to overflow banks and lowlands, and to preclude all hope of angling until an abatement of the flood. It only remained for us to imitate the patriotic Germans on the Rhine, and "watch and wait." And for ten days we watched and waited with such patience as we could muster, and with such diversion as could be found in casting for trout in a neighboring brook which found its way to the river in our immediate neighborhood.



It was the tenth day of our waiting, and while the river was rushing with such fury as to render holding a canoe in the current with any appliances at our command impracticable, that I succeeded in reaching an eddy caused by a huge bowlder still buried beneath the waters. I could not anchor, and my frail bark was kept in constant motion by the swirling eddy, when, after repeated casts, I had a rise. The fish leaped to such an unusual height, and with such seeming determination that the lure should not escape him, that I was startled and barely escaped a backward plunge in my anxiety to make a sure "strike." From the "feel," which ran like electricity from my submerged fly to the tips of my fingers, I knew that the hook had effectively performed its work, and was "fastened in a sure place." With this conviction I felt bold to begin the work resolutely, although I knew that if I succeeded in making a capture, I must do so under circumstances more difficult than any I had ever before encountered in any waters or with any fish. I was literally hemmed in. I dared not allow the monster to get outside the restricted circle of the eddy, for if he should reach the current, which was sweeping downward at the rate of ten miles an hour, I would be utterly powerless to check him, because it would be impossible to prevent him from rushing over the boiling rapids, which were thundering within fifty feet of the lower edge of the eddy. My only hope of fish or canoe was to hold both under the shelter of the rock which caused the eddy. To do this required a shorter line than it is ever wise to retain at the opening of a fight with a thirty-pound salmon. But everything—fish, rod, and line—had to be risked. It was hold all or lose everything; and with a shout which made the whole camp lookers-on, I began the fight; now hopeful, now in despair; now with the fish leaping within fifty feet of the canoe, and now lashing the water with the fierceness of a tiger; now dashing toward the current as if determined to break off or drag the canoe with him, and anon sullenly permitting himself to be reeled up to within ten feet of the gaff; now sinking and sulking, and now rushing and leaping as if he would twist off his own neck in his attempts to shake the cruel barb from his lacerated jaw; now at handsome holding distance, peaceful as a lamb, and seemingly ready for the coup de grace, and anon dashing hither and thither, as if looking for some open door to freedom; but all in vain. If his mettle was up, so was mine, and at that moment I would sooner have lost a fortune than that fish. I had kept him within bounds and well in hand; had got him within a foot of the gaff, sure of victory, and was shouting to my gaffer, "Now then, let him have it!" when, like a flash, he shot under the canoe, and would have smashed everything in a moment had not my watchful guide, seeing the situation and the danger in the twinkling of an eye, swung round our boat so that I could place the tip of my rod beyond the stern of the canoe, and thus escaped the greatest misfortune that can befall a salmon angler. It was quickly and skilfully done, and in five minutes more the first salmon of the season was gaffed, and the first victory achieved. The shout from my own canoe was caught up by the excited lookers-on, and we paddled to camp thrilled with the excitement of the contest, and happy as it is possible for an angler to be—and there are possibilities of happiness to anglers inconceivable to any who have never killed a salmon.

We accepted this first fish as the forerunner of the good time hoped for. And the good time came of which, for the delectation of those who have been or would like to be "there" themselves, I subjoin a few samples.



I had as my immediate companion an enthusiastic angler in all waters, but who had not as yet had the good fortune to take a salmon. The flood had somewhat receded; but it was still necessary to place our canoes in the eddies, and cast crosswise into the edges of the current. I had landed a fish of moderate size, and was watching my friend trying his 'prentice hand, at salmon casting, occasionally directing him by my fancied superior knowledge of the art, when a very large fish rose to his fly, and he struck him with a suddenness and force which was certainly complimentary to his muscle if not so illustrative of his skill. For it is always dangerous to strike too hard. It does not require a great pressure to force the barb home, while a heavy strike or a too sudden twitch is apt either to break something or tear the hook from the fish's jaw. In this case the hook held. For a moment fish and fisher seemed alike astonished, and neither stirred; but it was only for a moment. Directly away flew the fish—the line spinning from the reel as if harnessed to a locomotive. Fortunately the eddy, which made out from the point of an island, extended some quarter of a mile, and before it was passed over, the Judge began to appreciate the situation, the magnitude of the work in hand, and the difficulties he was likely to encounter before he could call the fish his own. He held him with a steady hand. He answered every call for line with a promptness and caution which indicated great tact, and he lost no opportunity to reel in when practicable. For a time it seemed probable that he would kill his fish without being carried into the central current. But no such luck awaited him; for after two hours of patient waiting and working—of rushing, and leaping, and sulking—the frenzied fish made for the centre of the river with such impetuosity that it would have been as easy to stop the flow of the river itself as to check him in his mad career. Where he led the canoe was obliged to follow; and follow it did for more than two miles, with occasional respites at available eddies, and occasional dashes up stream, putting the canoe men to their best trumps to prevent the reel from becoming exhausted by these upward flights.

Thus the battle progressed for more than three hours, when the fish approached the canoe of one of the party, which was anchored near a bank covered with overhanging brush. He rushed with such speed that the Indians in the anchored canoe had barely time to get out of the way, when the fish dashed between them and the bank, but so closely that when he halted for an instant near the surface, one of the Indians, whose movements were as quick as those of the fish himself, gaffed him and so saved him "as by fire," for in an instant more he would have been caught in the overhanging brush toward which he was moving, and where, had he reached it, he would have been inevitably lost. He weighed thirty-six pounds—the largest fish taken during our month's sojourn on the river. But the most marvelous part of the story is that the brute was hooked foul in the side, rendering the fight and the capture of so large a fish a double victory.

Many events in the Judge's life will be forgotten, but this first fight with his first salmon will remain a pleasant memory for ever.



Here is another experience which all anglers will appreciate. I was anchored in an eddy at the head of a favorite pool while the current in the channel of the river was so strong that it was deemed impossible to make headway against it. The pool in which I was casting was full of hidden rocks; but for that very reason it was one of the very best on the river. After an unusually long cast, a fish rose to my fly and was hooked. On the instant he dashed for the head of the pool, but by the time the anchor was shipped he reversed his movement with a rush, carrying with him more than two hundred feet of line. The canoe, having been forced into the channel, was sweeping downward with great rapidity, when I became conscious that my line was hitched. The only hope of rescue was to force the canoe back against the heavy current—and the order to do so was answered by such a display of skill and muscle as I had never before and have never since witnessed. The paddles bent like withs, and for a moment not an inch of headway was obtained. "We can't move her," was the mournful wail of my faithful Indians. "You can and must. Away with her!" was all I could say to them; and "away" it was. After a desperate struggle the canoe reached a point on a line with the rock on which I was caught, when off the line flew with a spring which indicated the great tension to which it had been subjected. "Now let her go!" and down we went, swept by the current, past rocks, into eddies and over rapids for a mile before I succeeded in getting the fish in a position where I could check him or place him where I desired. This I did, however, in time, by getting below him and holding the canoe broadside to the current. This enabled me to handle him at will, and the gaffer soon brought him to book. He weighed twenty-nine pounds.



One other incident. To have it appreciated, however, I must premise that the manner in which an angler plays a fish depends largely upon the condition of the river. Where, after a strike, you can pass into still water or into a moderate current, the position of your canoe is of no great moment. But if you are forced into very swift water, to allow a fish to have his way, and to make no attempt to gaff him until he is exhausted or until you can force him up to within gaffing distance against the current, is to find yourself at the end of the battle so far from your pool as to render a return unpleasantly tedious. Under such circumstances the order of battle with experts is as follows: The moment the fish starts down stream push below him with all possible despatch, reeling up the attained slack as the distance decreases. When the desired position is reached the canoe is thrown across the current and allowed to float with it. As the fish is above you, it is comparatively easy, with the aid of the current, to guide him downward with a very moderate pressure. In this position, with the exercise of proper caution and skill, the fish can generally be brought near enough to be gaffed long before he is the least exhausted.

This mode of killing is not only exciting, but very hazardous. The fish, when brought close up to the canoe, sometimes dashes beneath it, to the great peril of rod, reel, and leader, if not to the perpendicularity of the canoe itself. To illustrate: I had struck a large fish, and was playing him in the manner detailed, to my entire satisfaction. I had never been better pleased with the behavior of any fish, and I had him under such perfect control that I foolishly began to deem myself perfect master of the situation. In his strugglings the fish had crossed and recrossed the channel a hundred times—had rushed up stream and dashed down stream with the speed and eccentricity of a boomerang, but had failed to get beyond the restraint of a steady tension. I had reached a point in the struggle where I would not have given a farthing to be insured against accidents, when, while holding him within twenty feet of my tip, he turned his head down stream and dashed directly under the centre of the canoe, bearing my rod with him, and bending it double before I knew whether I stood on my head or my heels. And then came a crack, and a tear, and a snap, splintering the second joint of my rod, and breaking my tip like a pipe stem. I supposed, of course, that the wrench had released the fish, and I began to reel in as disconsolate as a defeated candidate for office. But, hollo! the fish is not off! When the crash came the line had rendered so freely that there was no unusual strain upon the hook, and he was still fast. But what of that? How could I save him with such a wreck? The idea that it was possible, with skilful handling, added a hundredfold to the excitement, and put me on my mettle. So, finding that the line was free, and that by keeping the dangling pieces in proper position I could still manipulate the reel, I renewed the contest, and after floating a mile or two with the current, brought him to gaff. I mourned, of course, the destruction of my favorite rod—the best I ever handled, which had served me, without a crack, for two years, and which I would not have exchanged for any rod I ever saw. There was nothing gorgeous about it; but it had life in every fibre, and responded with every cast, from tip to butt, with such spring and elasticity as rendered casting with it a real pleasure.



And apropos of the old adage that wise men learn from experience. After this fish had thus made shipwreck of my favorite rod, the Judge, with a generosity which is characteristic of the true angler—and no man has the spirit of the true angler who is not generous—proffered me the use of his untried bamboo. It was, and still is, the handsomest piece of salmon rod workmanship I ever saw, and felt in the handling as if it were as good to go as it was handsome to look at. He had hesitated, with the excusable timidity of the novice, to use it himself, and wished it tried, that he might report the result to its maker. I, of course, felt complimented by this proof of confidence in my skill, and consented, with the promise that I would do my best to preserve it intact, but that I must save my fish if I had to risk every inch of my harness.

The pool in which the test was to be made was directly in front of our camp, and the water was still in excessive volume, and the flow unpleasantly impetuous. I soon caught the hang of the rod, and was making experimental casts of a hundred feet or more, quite delighted with its spring and play, when I had a rise from the most dangerous spot in the pool. Afraid to strike with my usual force, I simply raised my tip an inch or two, and felt that he was as securely hooked as if I had a "double hitch" around him. And it is curious this instinctive consciousness of a secure or of a frail hold of your fish the instant you strike him. Every observant angler has this consciousness; and nothing is more common at such a moment than the remark, "I am afraid he is not well hooked"; or, "Ah! that struck home"; and all the after play—whether timidly or fearlessly—depends largely upon the "feel" of the strike.

At the outset I knew that if my fish escaped, it would not be because he was not well hooked; and, with this assurance, the play began. He took to the swiftest water at the first dash; he fairly leaped over the rapids at the foot of the pool, the canoe following with the speed of a race-horse, for half a mile, when he cried a halt, much to my satisfaction, for was I not entrusted with the finest rod that had ever wet its tip in the Cascapedia? Unlike my old companion, with which I had fought an hundred such battles, I was ignorant of the strain this elegant bamboo would bear, and so fought this battle as timidly as if I had never before broken a lance or captured a salmon. But a necessity was upon me. Its power of resistance must be tested, and the monster I was fighting must be kept in hand, if every joint in the rod should be reduced to splinters. So, ounce by ounce, the pressure was increased. Every new rush of the fish was met by augmented resistance on my part, until I found the rod capable of as hard work and as heavy a pressure as I had ever placed upon any rod I had ever handled. With what mathematical precision it curved from tip to reel! How grandly it took the butt, and with what grace it resumed its original form when relieved of an unusual pressure! To handle it soon became a delight, and I found myself procrastinating the contest from the mere pleasure I experienced in watching its perfect movement.

When at length I concluded to make a finish of the struggle, had placed my canoe below the fish, and was gathering him in, by slow approaches, not dreaming of disaster or defeat, the ferocious brute dashed for the canoe, passing under it near the stern like a flash, and threatening to make as complete shipwreck of the Judge's bamboo as the fish of the day previously had made of my own lance-wood. But, like others before me, I had learned from the enemy how to fight. The moment I saw what was coming I threw my rod down parallel with the side of the canoe, allowing the tip to extend beyond it, with the reel outward, so as to give the line free play. The experiment was a success. The line followed the fish without a hitch, and the beautiful rod remained intact! The furious brute was outflanked, and, as if in despair, he gave up the battle, and in ten minutes was gaffed.

The rod was a success. It had passed every ordeal grandly, and it was handed back to its owner with the comforting assurance, "It will do."


These are but specimen illustrations of the pleasure and exhilaration which come to those who "go-a-fishing" for salmon. But the pastime holds its votaries for other reasons than the mere excitement it affords them. A diversion which reaches only to the material of our natures can never acquire a permanent place in the affections of men of thoughtful habit. It is proof, therefore, of the satisfying and elevating character of the gentle art, that its disciples never weary of the pleasure it affords them. Indeed, the most enthusiastic anglers, and those who best illustrate its refining and invigorating influence, are those who have passed into "the sere and yellow leaf" with rod and reel as their inseparable companions. Like the virtues, it grows by what it feeds upon; and as the sun becomes more and more attractive in its mellow beauty, as it silently and gently sinks from view, so do the pleasures of angling become increasingly fascinating to its happy votaries as they near the gateway of their final rest. Ah! unhappy they who, in making haste to be rich, fail to avail themselves of the opportunity which angling affords to garner up such pleasant memories as would cast perennial rays of refreshing sunshine upon the too often sombre pathway of old age!

George Dawson.



Late writers on the English Constitution draw a contrast rather unfavorable to us between their Parliamentary and our Presidential Government. Our Executive is a fixture for four years and reëligible. He is responsible, and not shielded by any such legal fiction as "The king can do no wrong." In Great Britain, the cabinet, selected from the legislature, is the real executive body. "In its origin it belongs to the legislative part of the State; in its functions it belongs to the executive part." By a conventional code, the ministry or "the Government" can be changed by a vote of want of confidence, or by a defeat of the ministry in the House of Commons on a governmental measure. Our Cabinet holds a subordinate position. The Constitution contemplates, but does not define, "executive departments." Seven have been established by law, some of which have been divided into inferior departments called bureaus. The Cabinet is the political family of the President. The "heads of departments" are his constitutional advisers, and aid in the execution of his high functions. They are not held responsible for good government, are not liable to votes of censure for their policy, although for convenience sake, a kind of semi-official connection subsists betwixt them and the Federal Legislature.

The "principal officer in each of the executive departments" has a staff of subordinates. The various officers of the United States constitute the machinery of government, and the appointment of a large proportion of them is vested in the President. These various civil officers, so appointed, are for the execution of public business. The conduct of public business and the care of the public interests are, under the President's supervision and control, largely committed to these functionaries. With the growth of the country in territorial area, population, and wealth, the enormous increase of taxation and expenditures and the assumption by the Federal Government of State duties and prerogatives, the number of officials has increased to 100,000. The civil list in 1859 numbered 44,527; in 1875, 94,119. The rolls show a larger list of paid dependents since the war than there was during the war. All these officers hold their places by the tenure of the President's will. They are to be found in every neighborhood in the Union, and constitute a large army, dangerous to the welfare and perpetuity of the republic.

The theory is that all public offices are for administrative efficiency and the public weal. Up to the beginning of General Jackson's term of office, there had been, during the forty years of his six predecessors, 112 removals of such officers as required for their appointment "the advice and consent of the Senate." These few removals were not made from caprice, or to punish enemies, or to reward partisans, but for cause and by strict rule. The power of removal was exerted so exceptionally, only for just and salutary purposes, and was never used as an instrument of party success. Public policy dictated its exercise. Offices were not regarded as the private property of the President, or as the perquisites of a party, but as trusts for the general good.

General Jackson's accession to the Presidency began a revolution. Differences of opinion were punished by removal from office, and partisanship was rewarded with places of profit. His successors have adhered too closely to a precedent which has almost solidified into a party law, or a principle of American politics. No party can claim exemption from the sin of using the civil list for party ends. The Whig, Democratic, and Republican parties, in the distribution of "patronage," in Federal, State, and municipal governments, are alike obnoxious to censure. The poison has infiltrated every vein and artery of the body politic. Every branch of federal and of State service has suffered from the vicious maxim that offices are spoils to be divided among the victors in a party contest. Too often the condition precedent to appointment is unquestioning submission to party decrees, indiscriminate support of party candidates and party measures. The right to remove incumbents is now a conceded Presidential prerogative, acquiesced in by all parties.

The power of removal, under the influence of a false political philosophy, has been perverted into the duty of removal so as to give the offices to the winning party. A new President of different politics from his predecessor is expected to make sweeping changes, amounting even to a "total administrative cataclysm." The appointment of a political antagonist excites surprise, and requires an explanation or apology. Experience of the working of an office, ability, honesty, fitness, are not conclusive. "Off with his head," is the remorseless decree when a place is needed for a partisan. Each incoming administration is bedeviled by hordes of applicants, as greedy as the daughters of the horseleech. The plagues of Egypt scarcely symbolize the number and clamorousness of the mendicants. General Harrison, honest old man, in one month fell a victim to the tormentors, and General Taylor's death was probably hastened by a similar infliction.

Executive patronage is dependent on the revenue and expenditures of the Government and on the number of persons employed by the Government, or who receive money from the public treasury. To appoint and remove at will is a dangerous prerogative, royal in its proportions. Some of the ablest statesmen and constitutional lawyers have denied the right of the President to remove without cause, especially in such appointments as required the concurrence of the Senate.3 The practice of the Government seems to have settled the question differently. Conceding pro hœ vice the constitutionality, the evils, as illustrated in our history, are none the less great.

I. There has been a reversal of the theory of our institutions in respect to officers. In 1835 Mr. Webster said in the United States Senate:

Government is an agency created for the good of the people, and every person in office is an agent and servant of the people. Offices are created not for the benefit of those who are to fill them, but for the public convenience; and they ought to be no more in number, nor should higher salaries be attached to them, than the public service requires. The difficulty in practice is to prevent a direct reversal of all this; to prevent public offices from being considered as intended for the use and emolument of those who can obtain them. There is a headlong tendency to this.... There is another, and perhaps a greatly more mischievous result, from extensive patronage in the hands of a single magistrate, and that is, that men in office have begun to think themselves mere agents and servants of the appointing power, and not agents of the Government or the country.

Offices are looked upon as the prey of political parties, as spoils to be distributed. The well-being of the country, with appointer and appointees, becomes a secondary consideration. Office-holders, holding by the "tenure of partisan zeal and service" are regarded as receiving pap from the party, and therefore under special obligations to make sacrifices for its success. Hence federal officers, holding their places for the benefit of the party, are assessed for contributions for electioneering purposes and the recalcitrants are dismissed or tabooed. This system is unfavorable to manly independence. Fearing removal, incumbents become parasites, with chameleon facility adapting the complexion of their politics to the color of the appointing power. Government becomes also an almoner to bestow charities. Pensioning, never justifiable except in special exigencies, becomes the rule. Some apprehension of the evils of governmental allowances without an equivalent possibly induced Dr. Johnson, in the first edition of his dictionary, to define "Pensioner, a slave of the State, hired by a stipend to obey his master."

II. Government becomes a kind of close corporation for the benefit of the party in power. Party adherents, pets, favorites, get the dividends; civil service thus affording, as Mr. Bright phrased it for England, "a system of out-door relief to the poorer saplings of aristocracy." As a necessary consequence, patriotism and attachment to principles among those corporators become feebler, and servility to party stronger.

III. The Government suffers in its administration. In appointments other tests than the Jeffersonian, "Is he honest, is he faithful, is he capable?" are applied. The right to employment should grow solely out of superior capacity and attainments. Official patronage is a trust for promoting the general welfare. The present system, forgetful of general interests, instead of securing the best men, often gets instead the incapable. A good official system is hardly possible with constant changes in the personnel. If continuance in office be dependent on other considerations than discharge of duties, a stimulus to diligence and fidelity is taken away. The best motive for learning a task thoroughly should be furnished. Not unfrequently one defeated in his aspirations for Congress receives a Federal appointment. A popular condemnation becomes a stepping stone to a higher position. What should be regarded as a rebuke is made a plea for promotion.

IV. The tendency of the abuse of Executive patronage is to make those in the civil service mere placemen and mere tools or willing servitors of the President. To quote again from Mr. Webster:

A competition ensues, not of patriotic labors, not of rough and severe toils for the public good, not of manliness, independence, and public spirit, but of complaisance, of indiscriminate support of executive measures, of pliant subserviency and gross adulation.

By personal effort, by money contributions, through the press, in nominating assemblies, at the polls, office-holders work for him in whom they have their official being. An incumbent of the Presidency, a candidate for reëlection, has a large number of men and their families interested in his success, and swayed by the temptation of interest to secure his renomination and reëlection; add to these the hungry expectants, whose eyes and hopes are fixed on Washington, and it can be seen that the power and the practice of giving offices to partisans operate on the fears of all who are in and the hopes of those who wish to get in. The Executive himself is armed with undue influence and power and subjected to a temptation to dishonesty if he covets a reëlection. The "spoils" in the hands of a President, granted or withdrawn at pleasure, give fearful odds in a popular or party contest. Our Presidential elections are pervaded by an element not favorable to fairness or purity. A dangerous mass of private and personal interest is thrown into the scale, and selfishness usurps the place of patriotism and a sense of public duty.

V. Distribution of so many and such valuable offices as party rewards degrades parties from organizations upon principle, for patriotic political ends, to mere combinations for expediency and for personal ends. Because of the power and patronage of the President; and the centralizing effects of federal legislation, all State and local elections are subordinate to the quadrennial agitation for the highest federal officer. So ramifying is this federal influence, the election of a constable in Montana is decided by his relation to a "national" party. State and county officers are nominated upon "national" platforms, and support of Hayes or Tilden determines governors, Congressmen, judges, superintendents of education, mayors, sheriffs, policemen. Local interests are subordinated to the Presidential struggle. The attention and ability of the people of a State are diverted from State development to national concerns, or rather to the question, who is to be empowered to bestow Executive patronage? In the mind of the masses the President is the government. A Presidential election has ceased to be a contest of ideas, or to decide a political policy. It is a gigantic party struggle. Overwhelming importance attaches to it, because the victor has a cornucopia of "patronage bribery" to give to whom he likes. In other days, the canvass which preceded elections was educatory. Able men, on opposite sides, face to face, discussed grave questions of constitutional law or federal policy. In the nullification controversy of South Carolina there was a war of giants. The speeches of O'Neal, Harper, Johnston, Hamilton, Hayne, Preston, McCuffie, and Calhoun were such masterly expositions of the relations of the States to the general Government as would have done credit to Edmund Burke. In other contests, North and South, were discussions by our ablest statesmen of fundamental principles of higher abstractions. In the last contest much of the "stump" speaking was the veriest twaddle, an appeal to prejudice, and hate, and sectionalism, full of scurrility, personality, and vulgar anecdote. The press, so essential to free institutions, partakes of the degeneracy, and thus politics is degraded from a noble science to a disgusting scramble for spoils.

VI. Treating the civil service as legitimate rewards for partisan zeal diminishes official responsibility, lowers the standard of official integrity, and stimulates corruption by augmenting the means of corruption. The rapid growth of patronage, far beyond what is required for efficiency of administration, is readily suggestive of evil. A spirit of subserviency is not favorable to the growth of the highest qualities. Ceasing to regard office as a trust for the public good, the holder loses a strong motive for integrity. Favoring servility, or sycophancy, to conciliate superiors, very easily loosens the restraints of conscience. Vigorous attachment to principles yields to devotion to party. Public morals are corrupted by false maxims, by increase of temptation, by loss of patriotism. Places are multiplied for partisans. Contracts are let to partisans. Frauds, the logical consequence of lowering office to be mere pay for party services, are covered up, or palliated, to prevent damage to "the party."

If these evils be not greatly exaggerated, reform seems an imperative necessity. It is hard to correct governmental abuses. Society is prone to run in ruts. To suggest the supernumerariness of an office, or a reduction of salaries, raises a howl among the ins as if the liberties of the country were imperilled. Those useful legislators, like George W. Jones of Tennessee, and Holman of Indiana, who watch for abuses and scent afar a "ring," are always unpopular. It is needful to get back to first principles and to indoctrinate the public anew with correct notions as to the object of an office and the duties of a public officer. The Koran says: "A ruler who appoints any man to an office when there is in his dominions another man better qualified for it sins against God and against the State." To dismiss a faithful and capable incumbent to gratify party resentment, or to gratify a friend, is utterly in disharmony with the purpose of administrative machinery. Our Government is an agency for the public weal. It is not in an antagonistic position to "the people of the United States," but their servant to accomplish their legal will and to promote their prosperity. People were not created for offices, but offices for the people. As soon as the public service ceases to be subserved the offices should at once cease. While the office is necessary, and the incumbent discharges its duties satisfactorily, there should be no needless change. A citizen accepting a public trust, and doing his duty faithfully, should be allowed to enjoy his manhood and be protected from the exactions of a superior power. If, as has been asserted, "no vacancies" greet the eyes of applicants for places in Washington, it is a hopeful sign and most praiseworthy.

When vacancies do occur, or new offices are created, some competition among the candidates for employment would ensure more efficient service. Superiority of parts or attainments is a better qualification for bureau or clerical duties than activity in a ward meeting. Men of the best energy and capacity are not likely to be obtained by an arbitrary partition of places among the districts whose representatives sustain the Administration. England has reached the competitive test by slow steps. Employees in the several departments were, for a long time, clerks to the minister, and were paid out of the fees received from those who had business with the department. The sale of offices and exaction of fees occasioned serious abuses. By several acts of Parliament in this century, a civil service has been established, a public status assigned to clerks, and their salaries are now paid out of the public exchequer. By the test of competitive examinations, and by placing on a better basis the relation betwixt public servants and the nation, the service has been much improved.

The application of some competitive test for certain grades of office might be supplemented by requiring the President, in all cases of nominations to the Senate to fill vacancies, to state the reasons for removal, if any had been made. Laws might be passed modifying the absoluteness of the right of removal. In 1789, in a discussion in the House of Representatives, Mr. Madison said:

To displace a man from office whose merits require that he should be continued in it would be an act of maladministration, and the wanton removal of meritorious officers would subject the President to impeachment and removal from his own high trust.

The Constitution of the Confederate States had this provision:

The principal officer in each of the executive departments, and all persons connected with the diplomatic service, may be removed from office at the pleasure of the President. All other civil officers of the executive departments may be removed at any time by the President, or other appointing power, when their services are unnecessary, or for dishonesty, incapacity, inefficiency, misconduct, or neglect of duty; and when so removed, the removal shall be reported to the Senate, together with the reasons therefor.

A further provision forbade the President to reappoint to the same office, during the recess, any person who had been rejected by the Senate.

To make the President ineligible, as was done in the Confederate States Constitution, and as President Hayes recommends, would take from the Executive the temptation to use the appointing power to receive a renomination or reëlection. As the term of a Chief Magistrate draws near its end, and he becomes more deeply interested in being his own successor, he may make his appointments and direct his administration to increase popularity and accomplish his own ambitious ends. He might look to party management, and ward meetings, and manipulated caucuses, rather than to the general welfare. The evil of re-eligibility is increased by the failure of our electoral colleges to effect what was designed. These colleges have no independence, and most mechanically register the decrees of caucuses. What was intended to be a check on party has become its pliant instrument.

As essential to reduction of Executive patronage, and disarming the President of the dangerous influence and power growing out of it, there should be a persevering and a large reduction of federal expenditures. General Jackson, in 1836, truly said, "No political maxim is better established than that which tells us that an improvident expenditure of the public money is the parent of profligacy, and that no people can hope to perpetuate their liberties who long acquiesce in a policy which taxes them for objects not necessary to the legitimate and real wants of their government." Large revenue and expenditure give an excuse if they do not make the necessity for increasing the number of persons employed by the government. With expenditure comes an army of agents, contractors, officers interested in keeping up extravagance and multiplying officials. Patronage flows from the fountain of public income. To reduce patronage and ensure honest government, it is indispensable that the Government should extort no more money from the people than is needful for a just and economical administration. Our governments, federal, State, and municipal, need to be taught, by constitutional limitation and a sound public opinion, that a citizen's property is his as against every demand, except for a just, honest, and economical administration of the government.

As helping reform and growing out of it, a reorganization of parties is needed. The present parties have "played out." Parties are essential in republics, but they should represent intelligent patriotism, be organized on practical, living issues, and be vitalized by principles. Who is wise enough to tell what differentiates the Republican and the Democratic parties? What distinctive principles divide them? Who can "locate" the parties on such questions as tariff, currency, expenditure, civil service reform, character of the government, boundary between reserved and delegated powers? Issues like secession and slavery, no longer disputed or doubted, should have no influence in forming or keeping alive parties. Obsolete shibboleths should not alienate those who are otherwise agreed. A party not crystallizing around vital issues, not having "the dignity of contention" for principles, becomes a machine to put up A or put down B. The ins and the outs make now the two centres of the dividing parties, which have become cliques and cabals controlled by caucuses.

This is a most opportune season for reorganization of political parties, and a readjustment on broad and living issues. It is wrong to be carrying about the dead corpse of the past. A new generation has grown up since 1860. The spirit of the age is not what it was two decades since. The young men know next to nothing of Whiggery and Democracy. To make secession, or slavery, or the "bloody shirt" a rallying cry, is as absurd as to exhume the embargo or the alien and sedition laws. The inertia of society is great, and men cohere from traditions of the past. The reform bill of 1832 was long delayed in England, in its practical results, because the statesmen of 1832 continued in public life. So now effete parties are kept alive for partisan or patriotic ends by those who seem not to have realized that we are living in a new America.

It seems a plain duty to gather up what survives of our constitutional federal republic, of the labors of the past, and with a catholic spirit to combine for reformation of abuses, for national conciliation, for purifying parties, for saving the republic. A party equally of order and of progress, in favor of retrenchment, economy, low taxes, sound currency, civil service reform, preservation of State and of federal honor, strict adherence to the Constitution, keeping federal and State governments within their separate and defined spheres of action, while encountering the hostility of extremists, would rally to its support enough of intelligence and patriotism to repress sectionalism and hate, and bring our lately discordant States into a fraternal union, based on fixed law, mutual toleration and respect, and exact justice.

J. L. M. Curry.



In "Punch's Almanack" for this year is an illustration, in three compartments, of the subject "Music at Home." The first is called "Drawing-room Music of the Past." A young lady sits at one of those little spindle-legged piano-fortes, hardly larger than a large washstand, and somewhat shaped like one, with which our grandmothers and great grandmothers, and the men who composed music for them, were not only satisfied, but delighted. Her hands are moving, light and level, over the little key-board, and the dainty turn of her head shows that she is captivated by the sounds that she is eliciting. Around her is gathered a family group of some dozen people, old and young, from the grandfather to the little grandchild who sits upon a hassock at her lovely mother's knee. They are all entranced by the music. Plainly there is not a sound in the room but that which is produced by the fair performer. The souls of all that company are enchained; their hearts if not their eyes are brimming with emotion. A spell of tenderness and grace has been cast upon them; and they have given themselves up to him who has woven it. The faces of all are lightly tinged with sadness, but it is an elevated and elevating sadness; a sadness that is mingled with a joy silent, deep, and strong, a joy far above hilarity. The most impressive figure of the group is the grandfather, who sits with his arm lying listlessly across the instrument and his head slightly bowed, as, we may be sure, he is carried back by the sweet strains to a time when one who does not appear in the group was by his side in all the charms of early womanhood. The composition is so touching, so filled with purest, sweetest sentiment, that it is impossible to look at it long without being moved almost to tears by the tender and serene pathos with which it is pervaded. The legend tells us that the music which has wrought this spell is "A Melody by Mozart."

In the second compartment of the triptique, which is labelled "Drawing-room Music of the Present," a young lady also sits at a piano-forte. It is a grand, a very grand piano-forte; a tremendous institution, the invisible end of which stretches far into infinitude. Plainly it is one of those awful instruments which have received a gold medal at all the expositions. The lid is propped up so that it looks like a gigantic trap set to catch some gigantic bird or vermin. The performer's shoulders and arms, which emerge in a somewhat alarming manner from their scanty covering, are in violent agitation. Her hands are flung into the air as they poise for an instant over the upper part of the long key-board, ready to pounce down upon the shuddering notes below, and from the great gaping instrument a flock of startled and affrighted quavers, semiquavers, and demisemiquavers is pouring out pell-mell over the assembled hearers. Hearers! No. The great drawing-room is filled with a crowd of people who have evidently been bidden to listen to the music. But they are undergoing it with stolid indifference as they talk or try to talk, either almost shouting or whispering into each other's deafened ears and bewildered brains. The only person who takes any interest in the performance is the performer herself. The motive power here is "A brilliant fantasia for the piano by Signor Rumblestominski."

The third compartment is entitled "Drawing-room music of the Future." Here five performers are laboring at and around the piano-forte, the top of which has been taken off. They are all men; tough-brained-looking fellows: one a violinist, one a violoncellist; two are at the key-board, and one stands music in hand and mouth wide open. They are toiling as if at day's work by the piece; and all are singing. They are engaged upon "Twenty-four consecutive interdependent Logarithmic studies for Violin and Violoncello, with Double Differential and Integral accompaniment for the Piano-forte, supplemented by Unisonal Descriptive and Corroborative vocal exposition in five modern languages." They have evidently got well into harness, and have dragged their hearers some distance over their rugged road, which is a "hard road to travel." The mass of the assembled company are rushing madly for the door. On an ottoman in the foreground sit five victims, four young ladies and a bald-headed old gentleman, who are all fast asleep. At one side a determined fellow sits with his elbows on his knees grasping his head with both hands, resolved to endure unto the end. Not even in the faces of the performers is there the slightest manifestation of the soothing, the elevating, or even the pleasurably exciting influence which belongs peculiarly to music. With dogged determination they are working out a knotty intellectual problem. They do not exhibit even the tickled vanity of musical virtuosity; they are there—to use a cant phrase of musical criticism—to "interpret" what the composer has with infinite toil and trouble put upon paper; and very tough work they find it; somewhat like reading mathematics written in the Basque language. And their souls are unmoved. The musical sounds go through their ears straight to their brains, leaving their hearts untouched. They are engaged in an intellectual process.

Of these designs, the last two, although they are laughable caricatures, express with very little exaggeration (allowing for the notes made visible in the second) the character, the quality, and the effect of certain schools of musical composition. The first is not a caricature, as any one will see; but although it is quite the contrary, it is not on the other hand idealized. It merely represents with skilful touch and felicitous arrangement what might have actually occurred and what doubtless did many times occur in drawing-rooms at the end of the last century and the first years of this; indeed, what might happen and even does happen now. There has been a change in costume and in manners; but there is none in the effect upon musical souls of a melody by Mozart.

And these designs illustrate three periods in modern music: two through which it has passed and one upon which it seems now to be entering. By modern music I mean music since the days of Palestrina. What was written before that time, nearly or remotely, although it may have historical importance and interest, is of little or no value as music. Indeed, it hardly is music as we know and feel it. Not that I would imply that Palestrina invented modern music, or even that he alone of contemporary composers was a gifted and accomplished master of his art. Roland de Lattre, called Orlandus Lassus, chief of the Gallo-Belgic school, might dispute the palm with him.4 But this conceded, it remains that in Orlandus Lassus we have the best product of the ancient school, adhering to the ancient style and bringing it to its highest perfection; while in Palestrina we have the beginning of the modern school and style, the distinctive trait of which may broadly be said to be the use of melody and harmony of independent value under constant governance of the principle of tonality. Before the time of Palestrina—say A.D. 1550, he having been born about 1524 and having died about 1594, which year closed the life of Orlandus Lassus, who was born in 1520—before that time music was polyphonic. But it was not merely, as that term implies, many-voiced, or in several parts; for that it is now; but the parts moved without any æsthetic relation to each other, and with the same independence of the æsthetic effect of the whole. Their progression was according to certain rules; but these conformed to, the object of the composer seemed to be to make his work as intricate as possible. Certain figures—for they could hardly be called melodies—one or two or three or more—were repeated again and again and again by the various voices, each one going or seeming to go its own way, entirely regardless of the others—regardless of anything except the rules of the counterpoint of the day. The combining result was a tangled skein of sound which could be unravelled only as it had been put together, by rule. Instead of an emotional expression it was an intellectual puzzle in sound. Moreover the whole composition was without any bond of unity; it was, so to speak, and in its effect it was really, in no particular key.

Upon music in this condition there came about three hundred years ago a great change. Polyphonetic writing gave way, gradually but with some rapidity, to the movement of parts in a harmony of independent absolute beauty—that is, beauty, in the simple succession of its chords—and to the union with this harmony of a leading melody, also valuable for its independent, absolute beauty. Thus came into being what I have heretofore called "absolute music," which has been known to the world only about three hundred years, and in its full and complete development only about one hundred and fifty. At the same time, with this use of harmony and melody of absolute beauty and value, came in a great controlling principle or law, upon the operation and influence of which, in fact, the æsthetic effect of the new music chiefly if not entirely depended. This law or principle was tonality. I have been told that in a publication which I have never seen—although most probably it has been sent to me, to go, with the greater part of the printed matter and not a few of the letters that I receive, unread into my waste-basket—I have been held up as a dreadful example of musical incompetence on the ground that I cannot "appreciate Wagner's magnificent [or splendid, or something of that sort] tonality." Of course it cuts me to the heart to show that my criticaster was thoroughly ignorant of the very meaning of the word that he used—a word which is the name of a principle of paramount importance and significance in the art of music, which, I believe, he in some sort professes. But the demands of truth are inexorable.

Tonality is something which cannot be magnificent or splendid; nor can it be attributed to a composer as being in the slightest degree a claim to admiration. Indeed, one composer can hardly possess it in a greater degree than another; and the writer of an ephemeral ballad, or of "Thou, thou reignest in this bosom," has it, although not more largely, with stronger manifestation than Mozart or Beethoven. And yet it so happens that Wagner is in his later works less governed by the law of tonality than any other known composer of the day.

Tonality is simply the relation of a musical phrase, or air, or longer composition, to a keynote or tonic chord. To this tonic chord the harmonies of the composition must bear a close and constantly felt relationship. The harmony almost always opens with this chord, and continually recurs to it; and either in its simple form or in some of its inversions, it, its dominant and subdominant, are the perceptibly ruling harmonies of the composition; and upon this tonic chord the composition always ends. That is tonality; nothing more nor less; and to the influence of this principle of tonality is due the distinctive character of modern music. Strange as it will probably seem to most amateurs, news as we have already seen it is to one professor, it was not until after Palestrina's time that the law of tonality asserted itself in music, and that compositions were clearly written with any tonic, that is, manifestly and strikingly in any particular key.5 But it so happens that Wagner's method of composition has actually led him somewhat away from this principle of tonality. Any musical person will see that in recitative there is much less relation of harmony to the tonic than in airs or in choruses; and Wagner's prolonged, almost endless recitatives are wearisome partly from the very fact that we are so long at sea drifting hither and thither without the rudder of tonality. But what did this matter to the criticaster? He had heard the word tonality, and it was a round, mouth-filling word, somewhat new withal, and therefore good for use against an ignoramus. Perhaps he thought it meant sonority or something of the kind; or he connected it with that lovely phrase "tone-poem." Well, in any case, it has served his purpose astonishingly.

After the introduction of the principle of tonality music developed with remarkable rapidity. In one hundred and fifty years it made more progress toward an ideal beauty and as a means of emotional expression than it had made in the thousands of years that had passed since the first note was sung. For by this principle of tonality, melody and harmony as we know them became possible. All that went before was either the vague, formless, unsymmetrical production of popular mood and fancy, or the dry formula-work of musical pedants. And yet within a century we have such a result as Stradella's divine Aria di chiesa Se i miei sospiri, which, whether for its melody, its harmony, or its emotional expression, intense yet kept within the bounds of a lofty and almost serene dignity, is unsurpassed by any vocal work which has been since produced. It has been said by some that this air was not written by Stradella. M. Fetis, however, does not doubt it; and the result of the discussion is that it is assigned to the great Italian singer. The story of his having saved his life by singing it—two assassins who followed him into a cathedral to put him to death for having robbed a nobleman of his beautiful mistress having been disarmed and sent off repentant by the charm of his voice and of the music—is probably known to many of my readers. Did any of them ever hear in a composition by Wagner or Liszt, or any of that crew, a melody of which it could be believed or for a moment supposed that it would produce such an effect, even if it were sung by a seraph?

It was not, however, until the first quarter of the last century that what is in a large sense the modern school of music came to full growth. Then appeared Bach and Handel. They came suddenly; as suddenly as Marlow and Shakespeare into the field of dramatic poetry, as suddenly as Raphael and Titian into that of painting. Not indeed without roots in the past and a growth from them, but with a marvellously quick and strong development, and an unfolding of flower and fruit that seemed as if it were—as indeed it was—the blooming of a century plant. And as is ever the case in art, the utmost limit of attainment seems to have been reached at the first bound. What was dramatic poetry before the half century which began with Marlow and Shakespeare? What was painting before the like period of its glory? And what have either been since? This position may be claimed for Handel, with the fullest recognition of the genius of Mozart (Haydn, great, enchanting, truly inspired as he was, is yet out of the question), and even of the almost awful genius of Beethoven. But when we remember that the Hallelujah Chorus, Lascia chio pianza, the renowned Largo in G so grandly performed by Mr. Thomas's orchestra at his last subscription concert, are from the same hand, and that these are only examples (which I cite because they are so well known) of a creative power which seems to have been equally great and various in its manifestations—when we take into consideration the healthiness, the virility of Handel's tone of thought, there being, I believe, in all his known works, not a single passage marked by morbid feeling or even exaggerated sentiment, although of intensest feeling there is overpowering expression, as for example in the Largo just referred to, and when we give due weight to the copiousness of his production, he being the most voluminous of all the great composers, if we measure his works by their quantity and not by their numbers, in which an oratorio or an opera would count only one, we can hardly hesitate, except in favor of Beethoven, in reckoning him as the greatest creative mind in music. And as to Beethoven, deeply as he sunk his shaft into the profound of human emotion, mightily as he moves us, deftly as he expresses even the lighter moods of feeling (rarely, however, without some passing touch which, if pushed a little further, might become almost fierceness), is there not sometimes, and perhaps more than sometimes, a morbidness, noble, magnificent, but still morbidness, in his moods? We are overwhelmed by the grandeur, and are swallowed up in the gloom of his graver compositions; but when we emerge are we in as healthy a state of mind as that in which we find ourselves after listening to Handel or reading Shakespeare—even if we read such tragedies as "Hamlet," "Othello," and "King Lear"? Then, too, it must be remembered how carefully Beethoven nursed his genius; how regardless he was of every consideration except the expression of his own thought; and how comparatively limited was his productiveness, or certainly his production.

As to his moodiness, it must, on the other hand, be considered that it is the peculiar function of music to express moods. Man's soul is stirred by emotions which cannot be given utterance in words, and which would remain unexpressed but for music, which to the musically organized is a means of communication and of sympathy. There is a question at least whether an art whose function it is to give expression to inward feeling too subtle for words, an expression which is above all words, which gives form to the formless and utterance to the unspeakable, is not rightfully and of necessity at times morbid and moody; whether if it were not so it would not fail in doing that which is the very reason of its being. The supremacy lies between Handel and Beethoven; and we shall find ourselves inclined to assign it now to one and now to the other, according to the mood in which we are, which will depend greatly on which of the two we have just heard.

And yet, as to pure music, irrespective of psychological significance—that is, the expression of an ideal of beauty in musical form—Mozart stands first among all composers. Another mind so fertile in thoughts of the finest and highest kind of beauty is unknown in the history of any art, Shakespeare being of course always excepted. Writing, like Shakespeare, always for money, and not hesitating to put his hand to any task that would bring him a return, driven by sharp necessity almost to the prostitution of his genius, driven in his boyhood, by an exacting father, to write as an infant prodigy for the support of the family, dying at the early, and, as far as the mind is concerned, the immature, age of thirty-seven, he left behind him, in the mass of his compositions, much that was hastily produced merely to meet the needs of the moment. And yet in it all what transcendent beauty of form! He had rarely even a fitting occasion for the exercise of his faculties. Rarely is he not superior to the subject which he undertakes to illustrate. Like Shakespeare, he throws away beautiful thoughts upon mean and trivial subjects. Contrary to the supposition of the Roman Pope, with Mozart it was the jug that was begun to be made and the vase that issued from his hand.6 "Don Giovanni" his greatest or at least his richest work, is full of examples of this incongruity between the occasion and the production. In a previous paper I pointed out an example in the andante of Leporello's catalogue song. Another is the trio in masks. Only elsewhere in his own works can be found examples of an equally enchanting beauty of musical form. In its thought, and in the elevation and finish of that thought, it reaches the highest attainable pitch of perfection. This single trio is of more worth than all that many composers of repute have written in all their lives. For example: If it were a question between the destruction of this brief passage and all of Mendelsohn's compositions, the trio should be preserved without a moment's hesitation. Just as the Madonna Sixtina is worth ten times over all the canvases of Giulio Romano; and as a single mutilated figure of the frieze of the Parthenon, or the Venus of Milo, outweighs all the perfect marbles of Canova and of Thorwaldsen. Such is the transcendent value of the supreme in art.

In all the works of the great composers of the modern school—the only real school—of music, from Bach to Beethoven, including Haydn, there is a supreme dominant feeling for beauty of form, shown chiefly in melody, but hardly less apparent in harmony. Indeed, without this feeling they would not have been great. The rule is absolute: no form, no art; for art is proportion, symmetry. Melody is a series of musical proportions; like a series of arches the lines of which are harmonious. These melodic ideas they elaborated with the utmost care. It is generally supposed that ideas in art come spontaneously; and of all this might seem truest of musical ideas, which are not, like those expressed in language, in painting, in sculpture, or in architecture, required to conform themselves to a type or a purpose. They do come indeed to the musical artist, but not spontaneously in the form in which he presents them. They would not come up if they were not in the soil; but the soil must be cultivated and the growth must be pruned and trained into seeming naturalness and spontaneousness of beauty. Milton's lines—

Where the bright seraphim in burning row

Their loud, uplifted angel trumpets blow—

seem like a splendid spontaneous outburst of poetical expression. But we know that their splendor and their spontaneous seeming is the result of elaboration, of erasure, of interlineation, of recasting. The thought we may believe came in a moment, but it was worked with consummate care and art into the form in which the poet gave it to the world. So it is even with melody, the most spontaneous-seeming part of music. We may be sure that even Mozart, most fertile of all composers in melody, the greatest master of instrumentation, elaborated his themes and his treatment of them, if not on paper, at least in his mind before he put his conceptions into score. And the reason, the occasion for this elaboration was the desired attainment of the highest possible perfection of form. I need hardly say to any musician that I am not speaking of technical form, either of harmonic progression or of the cast of a composition, as for example the sonata form, the symphonic form, the dramatic form, but of the form of intrinsic absolute value which appeals to the general craving for and appreciation of beauty. This beauty of form cannot be disregarded in any art without failure to attain the highest place in the world's estimation, no matter how marvellous and admirable the powers displayed in another direction. For lack of this excellence Rembrandt can never take the highest place, but must be content with the admiration of those who can appreciate his mastery of manipulation, a technical excellence. Of all great painters, Turner is most imperfect in this respect. But Turner can hardly be said to have dealt with form at all. Hence a certain weakness amid all his glory. He painted distance, light. Among painters he is the king of space, the prince of the powers of the air.

Absolutely essential as beauty of form is in music, the reason of it, unlike that of the same quality in other arts, is beyond our apprehension. I at least find it so. I have heard it, and seen it upon paper, and considered it all my life. I have taken it in at eye and ear together. I have read and have pondered; but I never have been able to detect musical genius in its working, as I have, or have fancied that I have, done in other arts. I can find no reason for the existence of this beauty except that it is beautiful. I can see clearly, and I have sometimes thought that I could with some satisfactory approach to clearness tell in words, what the composer has done; but the how, and above all the why, is as much hidden from me as it was from him. For that it was unknown to him I am sure, not because I could not discover it, but from the very nature of the case.

Beauty of form in music is absolute, independent, self-existent. This is true of all natural beauty. There is no obligation upon beauty as there is, for instance, upon mathematical truth or moral goodness. But in all imitative art there is an obligation of conformity at least to an ideal type of what is represented. But music the moment it becomes imitative becomes ridiculous; it steps out of the proper limits of the art. For example, Haydn's "cheerful roaring lion" and "flexible tiger" in the "Creation." But it should be remembered that what is imitative and false in that aspect may have an essential beauty given by the genius of the composer. For example, the second and the fourth movements of the "Pastoral Symphony," and Haydn's own illustration of the passage, "softly purling glides through silent glades the limpid brook," in Raphael's song, "Rolling in foaming billows."

Music in its higher forms—I will not say its highest, but those which bring it within the pale of consideration in æsthetics—is without relations of any kind, except those which it bears to the soul of the composer and to that of the hearer. Even words are only the occasion of it, the suggestion. An embroidery of music with words is like the semi-pictorial explanatory addition to the Egyptian temples. The hieroglyphics tell us the story indeed, but if we are near enough to distinguish them, they only mar the effect of the architecture. So if in song the words are for any reason sufficiently salient to attract attention to themselves, they mar the music. In sacred music innumerable foolish and canting verses have become associated with fervor of feeling and sublimity of aspiration because of the music of which they have been made the vehicle. We do not really think of the words. And so in "Don Giovanni," in "Fidelio," we overlook the childishness of the poetry, if it must be called poetry, and regard it only as affording suggestions and occasions for the music.

Modern music was presented under these conditions until about half a century ago, when beauty of form and emotional expression began to be disregarded in favor of finish and brilliancy of execution. This was brought about in a great measure by the mechanical improvement of the pianoforte and the extension of its scale. This improvement and extension were made, it is true, in part to meet the demands of performers; but on the other hand, they made performance possible. I believe that there has been no more pernicious influence upon music than the transformation which the piano-forte has undergone since Beethoven's time, and its diffusion over all the world. I do not refer to the cruelties which it is daily the means of inflicting upon inoffensive families and true lovers of music, but to the effect that it has had upon composition and upon performance. The former it has helped to be at once flashy, dull, intricate, and shallow; the latter it has led to be astonishing. Brilliancy, a crowd of notes, sonority, all without beauty of form or emotional suggestiveness—this is the music which the modern grand piano-forte has brought upon us. Not only piano-forte music, but in a measure all music, has become a brilliant fantasia by Signor Rumblestominski. We do not sit in passive silence to listen to it; we talk, or are tempted to talk, against it; and the praise we give it is not a look of serene joy, with that tinge of sadness which Shakespeare had in mind when he made Jessica say, "I'm never merry when I hear sweet music," but a clapping of the hands and congratulation upon a brilliant triumph. And then we turn aside and go on again with our society gabble. Orchestral leaders and performers are not content unless they have a very full score to "interpret." They must have a big brilliant noise. The pitch has been raised until singers shriek, in order that the tone of the instruments may be brilliant. Our ears must be shot through and through with piercing shafts of sound. The time is quickened until allegro has become presto, and presto a maddened, indistinguishable rush. Even Theodore Thomas loses some of the majesty of the final movement of the "Fifth Symphony" by too quick a movement; and in the Trio of the Scherzo he drives the basses into a headlong scramble up and down the scale. When the clear succession of notes becomes indistinguishable, musical form, and with it musical beauty, is lost; and the performance becomes a mere victory over musical difficulties. And this quickening of the time is exactly what should not have taken place. Our orchestras have increased in size and in volume of sound since the days of Mozart and Beethoven. As larger bodies, therefore, their movement should be a little slower to produce the effect which the great composers had in mind. But in our rage for brilliancy we have hastened the movement; as if we should make an elephant gallop like a horse. Moreover we have fallen into the fatal error of making the finish, if not the difficulty of execution, superior to the presentation of beauty in form and in expression.

This condition of musical taste has been accompanied or followed—we cannot surely say as effect from cause—by a withering of the creative musical faculty in all its fairest, highest branches. After Weber's death, which deprived the world of the only musician who promised to be worthy to follow Beethoven, came Schubert and Mendelssohn, neither of them very strong men; the latter decidedly weak, and deficient in creative faculty; the former far more fertile and original. Since their time there has been a blank in the annals of music of the higher kind. The creative faculty seems to be dead. It is not so; for nature is exhaustless, and in his due time the new composer will come. But new conceptions of beautiful musical forms are unknown to the present generation—indeed, were so to the foregoing. There is Schumann; but Schumann is only the strongest and best of the non-creative composers. He writes very elegantly, with harmonies unexceptionable and pleasing; his taste is generally exquisite; his handling of his themes masterly. But to what great end? None. He could not create a melody; and his harmony is plainly contrived, not conceived. All of Schumann's music that I ever heard, from symphony down to piano-forte music, is not worth Beethoven's Sonata in C sharp minor, or Mozart's quartet in C.7 They have a certain sort of beauty and charm while you are hearing them, but you don't hanker after them; passages from them don't come to you when you are alone with troubled thoughts, and comfort you, hearten you, and build you up, as the remembered strains of Handel, Mozart, and Beethoven do. Simply, they are without real melody: they have only a well manufactured imitation of melody. Such enjoyment as they give is in a great measure intellectual. We admire the composer's skilful musical processes. Hence he is admired by professional musicians. And I remark, in passing, that professional criticism in any art, although it has a certain value, has not valid, determining power, and is not very trustworthy as a guide. It too generally runs on methods, processes, technicalities. If you would learn to paint, listen to the criticisms of a well instructed, capable painter; but if you would know and feel the highest things in art, remain an amateur and study nature and Raphael and Titian and Tintoretto.

As to the other composers who were Schumann's contemporaries, they wrote in a condition of hopeless incapacity, except as to their acquired mastery of their craft. They are ever uncertain themselves what they would be at. Compare them with the real composers. Those men knew they had something to do, and they did it. They felt that they had something to say, and they said it. These are always about doing something; they are ever entangled in some complicated toil of sound, out of which they cannot find their way; they are hanging by the very eyelids upon some discord that they are afraid to resolve; they are always sounding a note of preparation, announcing that they are about to do something, which they never do. Their music is written in the paulo-post-future tense.

Under such circumstances it is not surprising that music, ceasing to be merely beautiful and emotional, has, in its decay, sprouted a fungus and monstrous intellectuality. Wagner's musical figures have become as intricate, and often as ugly, as those of a Chinese puzzle; and the entertainment is to see how they fit each other and the words to which they are adapted. In his orchestral work we have the most masterly instrumental coloring; a knowledge and an elaboration which is unsurpassed, and also uninspired. It is great technical work, and no wonder that professional musicians admire it. But what is its real value? Take, for example, the finale to the overture to the "Meistersinger." It is very impressive materially, and as a work of instrumental art. It becomes tremendous from mere muscular activity and accumulation of physical force. The violins rush frantically up and down the finger-board; the violoncellos are ready to jump over their bridges; the trumpets blow blood out of their eyes; and there is general frenzy. But what is all this hurly-burly about? What are the ideas? Look at them. There are, after all, but three, or it may be four, notes in a chord, and a melody is—well, a melody; an unmistakable sort of thing, one would think, although so hard to define. What is there here of harmony or of melody that would be valuable for its own sake? Strip this music of all its instrumental elaboration, tone down its noisy self-assertion, and look at the bare ideas as they can be played with two hands upon a piano-forte, or with four strings in a quartet, and what are they worth? Would a circle of cultivated musical people sit entranced by them if they were played upon an old harpsichord! No, I take it. And if not, their worth is little.

Instrumentation, and all manner of elaboration—orchestral and choral—is of value only when it enhances and sets forth ideas, melodies, harmonies—in a word, musical forms which in themselves have the value which belongs to beauty and expression. Else, like the gift of tongues without the spirit of love, it is literally sounding brass and tinkling cymbals. There is in some of this work—notably in Wagner's—an evidence of sustaining power which deserves and commands a certain respect. But such sustaining power, so applied, is like figures of caryatides supporting some poor decadent frieze. They bend and strain and keep it up. But why, we are tempted to say to them, do you strain to keep up that poor, commonplace stuff, which would not be looked at if it stood not upon your heads? Let it fall! You are all that keep it from tumbling into a dust-heap and seeming the rubbish that it is. It seems to be a consciousness of their deficiency in melody and in emotional expression which drives such composers of the present day as aim to write in the higher style to make their music "interdependent, logarithmic, differential, integral, and corroborative," and to strive to make up in intellectual elaboration what they lack in inspiration.

This condition of things in music is not to be bettered by endeavor. Genius alone can do that, when brought into contact with the power of appreciating genius. And genius, although conscious of its power, is ever ignorant of its tendency, and never works but for its own ends; while those who hear and understand its utterances do so with no higher purpose than the delight they bring them. When I hear a man talk of doing something to elevate his art, however much I may respect his taste, his acquirements, or his aims, I then begin to doubt, if I have not before doubted, his ability to write a sentence worth reading, to make a picture worth looking at, or a song worth hearing.

Richard Grant White.



Spring gives the order, "Forward, march!"

'Tis borne along the eager line;

Breathes through the boughs of rustling larch,

And murmurs in the pine.

"March!" At the sound, impatient, springs

The mountain rill, with rippling glee,

And rolling through the valley, brings

Its tribute to the sea.

"March!" and upon each sunny hill

Old winter's allies, ice and snow,

Start at the music of the rill,

And join its onward flow.

"March!" Down among the fibrous roots

Of oaks we hear the summons ring.

The long-chilled life-blood upward shoots

To hail the coming spring.

"March!" and along each narrow neck,

Across the plain, and up the steep,

The spring tide clears the winter's wreck

With its resistless sweep.

Advancing in unbroken lines,

New allies rush to join its bands,

Till winter, in despair, resigns

The sceptre to its hands.

On southern slopes, in quiet glades,

And where the brooklets murmuring run,

The grass unsheathes its tiny blades

To temper in the sun.

Flora unfurls her banner bright

Above the field of flashing green,

And crocus blooms in lines of light

Throw back the sunlight's sheen.

The birds on every budding tree

Take up anew the old refrain:

The spring has come: rejoice all ye

Who breathe its air again.

H. R. H.




May brings the travelling season. Thanks to steam and Cook, we can all find time for a trip to Florida or Labrador, if not to Lapland and Thibet. Travel is a pastime of both sexes, all ages, all sorts and conditions of men. Lord Bateman was a noble lord, a noble lord he was of high degree; and, adds the ballad, "he determined to go abroad, strange countries for to see." Cheek by jowl with Lord Bateman, in the railroad car, is Samuel Shears, Esq., his lordship's tailor, on the same errand.

"Pa, I think we ought to go to Paris," says matronly Mrs. Brood.

"Why do you think that, my dear?" asks paterfamilias.

"Because I do," rejoins the lady, wheeling in a circle of small radius. Impressed by that logic, Brood has his trunks mended, and embarks his family on the first available steamer.

Mrs. B's spring of action is that the Breeds have started, or that the McBrides went last year. Fashion pries us out of our comfortable domesticity, our cozy home-keeping ruts, which we exchange for the miseries of inns and the perils of voyaging; precisely as custom, gathering at length the force of law, "moves" a hundred thousand hapless New Yorkers, more or less, every May, with smash of household goods, cost, loss, hurry, flurry, and worry—they exchange houses as in the children's game everybody changes "chairs" or "corners" to see who will get the worst of it. This is a species of May travelling with all its curses and none of its compensations.

Presently our European voyagers will be sending home the tale of their misadventures. They fell among the London servants—soft and sweet to the face, perfect devils behind your back; stealing all your provisions under pretence of perquisites, and drinking enough beer in a week to last an American a year; whereas, if you yourself so much as send for a glass of ice-water at the hotel, the butler grumbles at the messenger, "Those Americans lap water like dogs!" At Paris our pilgrims fall a prey to landlords who charge the price of new furniture for every microscopic scratch on a chair, besides cheating them out of a thousand francs extra rent, as a parting token, on the ground that the laws require a certain notice of quitting.

A more agreeable theme will be the people our travellers meet. Whoever goes from another American city to New York is struck by the strange faces he sees—phizzes and figures that make Hans Breitmann commonplace and Nast a portrait painter instead of a caricaturist. Could one have suspected such oddities in human shape, such outlandish rigs? The New Yorker going to London is still more surprised at the queer-looking specimens he sees there, surpassing the fancy of Dickens and Cruikshank: plenty of Bagstocks, Peggotys and Skewtons; perfumed old beaux, with enormous gloves, too long in the fingers, and with an eyeglass held muscularly in one eye socket by screwing up the face; and all sorts of people belonging to the last century, and magically coming out of bandboxes a hundred years old.

So, at least, writes Augustus from London; and presently, as if whisked off by an enchanter, we hear of the youth in Naples, "the noisiest city in Europe," he says, where all the people chatter incessantly—"the dirtiest city, too, and one of the most delightful." There is something enviable to us desk-tethered mortals in these wide-striding rovers who one week are in Copenhagen and the next in Constantinople. "Hang it," says Brown, coming down to breakfast in Brussels and finding that Smith has gone, "I meant to bid Smith good-by, and forgot it. But I shall run across him in Smyrna next month, and can do it then."

Before we have digested the Neapolitan missive of Augustus, and its funny account of his fellow voyagers—how the men kissed all their male friends at parting, as women do with us, and, after kissing, ran again to the car windows to blow and throw last kisses—we see the traveller in Toledo, and reeling off his diary to us in some such fashion as this: "Here we find Burgos, formerly the capital of Castile and Leon, showing signs of former greatness, but now fallen to decay. It has a magnificent cathedral, a convent, and a nunnery, in which the people seem to have spent all their money, the rest of the city being mostly in ruins. Next we come to the Escurial, that vast pile, embracing palace, monastery, and cathedral, with burying place for the reigning kings. Leaving Madrid for a few moments, we will look at Toledo. Toledo is one of the old cities of Spain, and was a place of some importance when taken by the Romans, about 200 B.C. It had at one time 200,000 inhabitants; now but 17,000. What struck me so strangely was, why they should build up such a city among these rocky hills, not a tree or shrub to be seen outside the city, and very few inside," etc.

I quite like to read these travellers' letters, with their odd jumpings from city to city and century to century. True, a man might girdle the earth as many times as the Wandering Jew, without reaping a tithe of the instruction that Xavier de Maistre got from his "Voyage Autour de Ma Chambre"; and again, one untravelled, humorous pen made a small Connecticut town more talked of than any other of its size in the United States—I mean, of course, Danbury. Still, the exhilaration of travel, and its habit of observation, do lend freshness to writing. Then the returned traveller has a fund of new ideas for us stay-at-homes, and his story is agreeable provided he does not pronounce his French and German too abominably. He corrects our fancies by his experience. Who does not know Mrs. Norton's "A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers," and has not conjured up an image of "fair Bingen on the Rhine"? "Fair Bingen!" cries Miss Kate contemptuously, when we ask her memory of the place. "Why, Bingen is nothing—not handsome, not picturesque, not poetic, not even clean. In fact, it is the smelliest place on earth, except Cologne." So the traveller modifies our stay-at-home impressions.

Again, we always notice signs of mental growth and widening in our returned travellers. Besides, for a time they are less anxious over details, less overcome by trivial mishaps; they have an agreeable aplomb; they bring a certain refreshing atmosphere of leisure to our round of careful routine. One palpable danger of the traveller is becoming a slave to his guide-book, as some opera-goers are to the libretto; he is verifying the assertions of his Murray, when he should be seeing the landscape or the cathedral; he spends the time he has for picture galleries in checking off the catalogue, as if hired to certify that the alleged contents are there. Travellers who see only what the books tell them to see bring us home no facts and opinions of value.

The earth has now been so tracked from pole to equator that the traveller, to gain the world's attention, must see old things with new eyes, or must ferret out new paths and places. Still, for a Stanley and a Cameron mankind has immeasurable wonder; so has it for some tremendous exploring sportsman like Lieutenant Colonel Gordon Cumming, who takes only an ordinary paragraph to describe such an episode as the crunching to death of his gun-bearer on a certain Indian "nullah," adding: "This was a sad termination to what had been a brief but successful chasse—my bag during the trip consisting of seven tigers, a panther, and a bear."

As to types of travellers, they have nearly all been drawn—the irascible, the erratic, the English, the nil admirari, the enthusiastic, and so on. Travelling is bad for some people, like Jack Peters, who had his cards in Europe printed "Mr. Jacques Petersilli," pretending it to be easier for his European friends to get the hang of that title, of which the "silly" part was all acquired across the sea.

The ex-Reverend Christopher Cheeseman, tutor and philosopher, is a voyager of a sort perhaps destined to be more generally known among us. He visits Europe as often as he can procure his passage and pocket money in return for his valuable services as escort and adviser. He arranges the preliminaries of purchasing the tickets and outfits, but, once afloat, allows little to burden him with anxiety. Aboard ship he is recognized as a good teller of stories, some serious but not truthful, some comic but not truthful, these last being nicely graduated in delicacy from the boudoir to the mess table. Reaching England, he has prayers put up in the established church for the safe arrival of "Christopher Crozier Cheeseman and party"—the humor being that he is only the courier or nominally useful man of the persons who pay for him, and whom he lumps as "party." He studies the peerage attentively, carefully deciphering the mysteries of the coats of arms on the equipages. In England, when visiting the cathedrals, he expresses a great desire to be a monk (probably of the bon vivant sort), and actually pushes his asceticism to the point of attending religious services with great regularity; but at Rome the rogue will do as Romans do, and may be found any Sunday afternoon listening to the band on the Pincio. He likes best to travel as tutor to some ingenuous youth, because it comes handy to leave the lad to fight a duel in France, or gamble in Germany, or fall in love in Switzerland, while the judicious mentor is supplied with funds to take a little diversion on his own account, after his arduous duties. But let us stop at the threshold of this sketch, because it is plainly one for the skilled novelist, rather than the rambling, loitering prattler, to undertake.



The number of people ready to buy $200 watches for $20, and then to find them not worth $10, was made known by a recent exposure of pretended Kansas "lotteries." A like eagerness maintains "gift concerts" and similar swindles. Conducted honestly, they would earn fortunes for their projectors, whose instinct, however, is for a total swindle.

The gift swindle is known by its circular, with its voluble assurances that "ticket-holders can confide in our honor"; that the drawing is to be done from two boxes, a securely blindfolded deacon at one and a real blind girl at the other; that all funds received will "remain inviolably pledged for prizes and donations"; that the result of the drawing of the 9,999 prizes by the 99,990 ticket-holders will be telegraphed the same night to all parts of the United States and to Mexico and Canada, and the prizes distributed the day following; that agents may trust the honesty of the enterprise, "as its founders are men of high standing," and so on.

One trick is the "cash assessment on prizes." The investor is notified that he has drawn a $150 prize, deliverable on the payment of "the usual five per cent. for handling," which sum he will "please forward" to the Grand Atlantic and Great Western Monster Gift Carnival and Bottle Washer's Library Fund Association. The gudgeon protests that there was no such condition on his ticket, but not liking to lose $150 by grudging $7.50, "forwards" this sum, and receives $150 worth of stock in the Seashore Gold-Mining Company, or 3 undivided acres in the Atahualpa Swamp—"the directors of the association having recently decided to invest the receipts for their wards, the ticket-holders, in this splendid property." There really need be no ticket drawing or tickets for this swindle, as people who never heard of the enterprise can be informed of their luck, and will all the more quickly forward their "five per cent."

Some readers may remember B. Sharp & Co.'s fine "gift enterprise," whose drawing was postponed so many times on the plea that "the last drawn numbers are as fortunate as the first," as indeed they were. It begged ticket-holders to "exhibit to your friends and neighbors the many rich presents we have so generously bestowed upon you." The "committee" were engaged in the herculean labors of "drawing and registering tickets at the rate of 6,000 per week, and in packing and expressing prizes"; but alas! "owing to unforeseen expenses we have been put to in purchasing presents for our ticket-holders," this is what happened:

We are compelled to make an assessment of 5 per cent. on all prizes over fifty dollars ($50) awarded to them; and in order to expedite the business of the distribution in packing and forwarding the gifts, ticket-holders must within ten days after notification of the value of the gift awarded to them, forward to us the amount of per centage, with directions for the packing and expressing of their gift, or else at the expiration of that time it will be forfeited.

Then there was B. Flat's "National Engineers Gift Enterprise," which with a spice of humor announced that it was controlled by the class of men for whose benefit it was devised—"all engineers." It had as "references" a "State senator" of New York and another of Illinois, a lithographer, an editor, a hardware merchant, and other like distinguished personages, whose callings were proudly set forth, presumably to show that they were not mere adventurers. An enlightened press, if we may believe the circulars, backed up this "association." "Its managers are men of the strictest integrity," said one Milwaukee paper; "We believe they will discharge all their obligations to purchasers of tickets with punctuality and integrity," said a second; "An institution above suspicion, and worthy in every respect of public patronage. The managers we believe to be honest, reliable, and trustworthy," said a third. "The safest investment of the kind in America," said one Chicago paper, unless the circular falsifies; "Considered as a sure success," said a second. One New York paper is quoted as commending the enterprise, and another as thinking that "$30,000 for $2.00 is worth chancing." But when the thing went to pieces, and B. Flat escaped on bail, it was announced that "the swindle had been exposed by the press," as indeed it was.



The muse that in our day quits Parnassus to pay gossiping visits among the pill-kneaders, and to lounge in the haunts of trade, has of late been pressed into service by the guild of beggars. Perceiving, doubtless, that fortunes are got in teas, trousers, and tooth washes by sheer dint of literary advertising, the mendicants too have quaffed the Pierian spring, and now leave their sheets of verses at our doors for the accommodating price of "whatever you choose to give." The rogues have learned wisdom by experience. When a long-winded legislator troubles his fellow Solons with an unwelcome speech, he is sometimes gently rebuked by cries of "Oh, print the rest!" That is what the professional beggars have learned to do. Habitually cut off in their tale of woe at the door sill by an unfeeling "There's nothing for you!" they have learned to print the rest, and now before Dora the doormaid can utter her formula of rejection, a neat circular is in her hand, on which is printed: "Please give this to the lady or gentleman. Will call in an hour."

Such, in fact, was the inscription on a printed page left at the Maison Quilibet this very morning, purporting to be a "copy of verses by a party of mechanics," as indeed one may easily believe that it is, from the internal evidence of such stanzas as these:

For many weeks we work have sought,

But work we cannot procure.

Sad distress has been our lot,

To go from door to door.

May want upon you never frown,

Nor in your dwelling come;

May Heaven pour its blessings down

On every friendly soul.

Lord Jesus, thou hast shed thy blood

For thousands such as we;

Many despise the poor tradesman's lot,

But to Thy Cross I flee.

Suddenly shifting then from poesy to prose, the circular continues:

A blessing.—May the blessings of God await you; may the bright sun of glory shine above thy bed; may the gates of plenty, honor, and happiness be ever open to thee; may no sorrow distress thy days, and when the dim curtain of death is closing around thy last sleep, and the lamp of life extinguishing, may it not receive one rude blast to hasten its extinction.

Thus having propitiated the æsthetic feeling as well as the benevolent heart of the householder, the circular proceeds to business by declaring that "the bearers are a party of unemployed tradesmen, who," etc. There is, of course, no resisting the appeal to buy the poem and the benediction; only, when Dora the doormaid is afterward questioned how many unemployed tradesmen formed the party, and she answers, "Only one, ma'am, and he's no tradesman," we look at each other as we do when "The Blind Man's Prayer" is given to us in the street car by some bright-eyed little girl, or some boy who meanwhile munches an apple. "It's my uncle," says the lad, if asked whether he is perhaps, the person alluded to in the lines, "You see before you a poor, blind man," etc.; and I fancy that the literature of mendicancy has now become important enough to furnish a large variety of printed forms, so that the regular customer can choose for himself whether in any particular season he will be a poor blind man, or a lady that has seen better days, or a party of poetical mechanics.

Philip Quilibet.




In Lieutenant Wheeler's report of operations on the geographical and geological survey of the Territories west of the 100th meridian during 1876, we find the first explanation of the origin of the name California. The mountainous country of Mexico has three climates through which the traveller passes in going from the sea to the high country, the hot, the temperate, and the cold zones. The Mexicans call them tierra caliente, tierra templada, and tierra fria. They entered the present region of California from Sonora or New Mexico, and on their way passed a lake now called Lake Elizabeth, on the border of the California desert. There a violent west wind blows night and day. It is a real sirocco, dry, and so hot as to remind one of a blast from a furnace. The Mexicans accordingly made the country beyond it the fourth in their series of ascending temperatures, and named it tierra california, the country hot as a furnace.

This report is one of the most valuable produced by the survey. During the year the great area in California which lies below the level of the sea was examined to ascertain whether it could be filled and maintained as a lake by a canal from the Colorado river, and the decision is in the negative. The depressed area covers about 1,600 square miles in California, and the difference between the rainfall and the evaporation is so small that if the whole Colorado river were poured into the basin, it would cover only 556 square miles of surface, or little more than one-third the basin. Filling would cease at that level for the reason that the whole supply of the river would disappear in vapor. The slope of the Colorado river is extraordinary, 2.13 feet per mile at Stone's Ferry, and 1.21 feet at Camp Mohave, which may be compared with eight inches, the average fall of the Mississippi per mile. At Stone's Ferry the velocity is 3.217 feet per second and the discharge 18,410 cubic feet. Great difficulties stand in the way of the proposed canal, and the engineers do not think the lake, if it could be formed, would have an appreciable effect upon the climate of the surrounding region. The primary object of this survey is to carry the grand triangulation of the continent across the country under its jurisdiction, and to map the surface so as to enable the Government to put the ground properly in market. In addition to these objects a great amount of valuable work is done in geology and natural history.

Prof. Jules Marcou, geologist attached to the survey, points out that the valleys of Santa Clara and Santa Barbara in California may become the site of true artesian oil wells. The ordinary flowing oil well is supposed to obtain the force which lifts its oil above the surface level from confined gases in the earth, but in California the lift will be obtained in precisely the same manner as in the case of artesian wells for water. There are strata of sandstone impregnated with the petroleum, and these strata are lifted up on the mountain sides, so that a well bored at a low point in the valley would be supplied from a reservoir some thousands of feet high. The wells will have to be about three thousand feet deep.

The naturalists of the survey noted many singular phenomena of animal life. On the islands off the coast there is a race of liliputian foxes which is supposed to have been derived from the Gray fox, its small size and perfect fearlessness, together with its insect diet, being due to its confinement to the islands. This animal is so small that even the sheep breeders do not fear it. It lies under the cactus plants for its noonday nap, and to this fact must be due the remarkable circumstance noticed in skinning a number of them. In every instance the interior surface of the hide was perforated by cactus spines, and in one individual the hide was fairly coated within by these spines, some of which had become soft with age. There were so many that a knife could not have pierced the hide without touching the spines!

Another fact developed was that the great dread of the grizzly bear is resulting in his rapid extinction. Strychnine is considered indispensable to the outfit of a California shepherd, and the grizzlies have been killed or forced to the mountains, where they still linger in considerable numbers in the chapparal. It is noticeable that the Rocky mountain grizzly is a tame creature compared with his brother of the Sierra Nevada, who does not hesitate to take the initiative in a combat with man.



Prof. Virchow lately informed the Berlin Anthropological Society that an intrepid young German traveller, Herr von Horn von der Horck, is now (January, 1877) living among the Sioux Indians busily engaged in taking plaster casts for craniological studies. Von der Horck made a journey to the Polar sea last summer, returning by way of Lapland, where he made enormous collections of bones, skulls, and casts. Prof. Virchow says these collections are more complete in Scandinavian ethnology than all that European museums outside of Scandinavia contain. One result of this journey was the discovery of a continuous water way between the Gulf of Bothnia and the Polar sea, though not one that is capable of navigation. A lake, called Wawalo Lampi, lies on the divide between these two bodies of water, and sends a river to each. The northward flowing one is the Ivallo and the southward the Kititui. We are glad to welcome so enthusiastic and thorough a student to this country. It is precisely work like his that is needed in America, and the time for accomplishing it is rapidly passing away. We have too much theory and too little real investigation in American ethnology, and while the men of hypotheses are talking about the origin of the Indians, and endeavoring to trace them to Asiatic stocks through the medium of language, the race is fast losing its purity by intermarriage, as it has already lost the most distinctive of its peculiarities by intercourse with the whites.



It is well known to meteorologists that the wind vanes as ordinarily placed near the surface do not give a true indication of the wind. Even when the vane is not over a city or town where the air currents near the earth are affected by the direction of the streets, the varying character of the surface in respect to radiation and absorption of heat will modify them. It is therefore for good reasons that vanes are perched up on high flagstaffs fixed on the roofs of buildings. Some of these are more than a hundred feet above the ground, but recent observations in Paris show that this is not enough. Small India-rubber balloons a foot in diameter and with an ascensional force of about one ounce were sent up, and as they rose slowly, at the rate of twelve feet per second, the effect of the air currents upon them could be easily marked. This was found to be very variable at heights of less than one or two hundred metres (300 to 600 feet). The conclusion was that no observations at lower levels were trustworthy.



In spite of the familiarity with great cannon which the advances in gun construction of late years have produced, the experiments with the 100-ton gun of the Italian government have not failed to awaken general interest and wonder. It fires a 2,000-pound shell, and a charge of 240 pounds of powder is but a portion of what the gun will bear. These light charges have to be used if the penetrative effects of the gun under unfavorable conditions are to be studied, for with its full charge the weapon simply destroys anything that is put before it. Comparative results cannot be obtained when the only effect is complete ruin. It is somewhat remarkable that an over confident iron founder should have chosen this weapon to test once more the value of cast iron for defensive armor. His idea was that armor could be made so hard by chilling the surface that the shot would be broken to pieces upon it, and experiments with a good iron and guns of small calibre had encouraged the hope. But a 2,000-pound shell and 400 pounds of powder in the 100-ton gun proved anew the unfitness of this material for armor plating. The shot had a velocity of 1,494 feet per second, and it smashed through an 8-inch plate of wrought iron, a wood layer, and a 14-inch plate of chilled cast iron. The ruin produced was greater than in any other experiment, the cast iron breaking into fragments. The power of this gun, the greatest rifle ever made, is such that a solid 22-inch plate of the best English wrought iron is completely penetrated by its shot.



A "Vienna bakery" has been one of the most prominent objects at each of the last three international exhibitions, and probably there are many housekeepers who would be glad to know how this delicious bread is made. Unfortunately success does not always follow imitation, and several attempts to introduce the manufacture of this bread have failed, even when Vienna bakers were employed in the work; and yet there is absolutely no secret in the process. One of the American commissioners to the Vienna exhibition, Prof. E. N. Horsford, gave an elaborate report on this bread, and since he came to the conclusion that it can be made elsewhere, we will recount some of the causes upon which in his opinion its excellence depends. These are the mode of baking, the mode of making, the use of fresh "compressed yeast" which produces no acetic acid in fermentation, the use of selected flour, the mode of milling, and the kind of wheat.

The Baking.—The loaf should be so small that fifteen or twenty minutes will be sufficient to cook it through in an oven which is heated to a temperature of about 500 deg., or the melting point of bismuth. The rolls should not touch each other.

The Mixing.—The proportions are:

8 pounds of flour,
3 quarts of milk and water, in equal proportions,
ounces of pressed yeast,
1 ounce of salt,

which should make about 380 rolls of the ordinary "Kaiser semmel" size. The milk and water in equal parts are first mixed and allowed to come to the usual temperature of a kitchen, and a small amount of flour is then mixed in it so as to make a thin emulsion. The yeast is added and well mixed in, first crumbling it in the hand, and the pan is left covered for three-quarters of an hour. Then the rest of the flour is slowly mixed in, with thorough kneading. The dough is left for two hours and a half, "at the end of which time it presents a smooth, tenacious, puffed, homogeneous mass, of slightly yellowish color." It is weighed into pound masses (all bread must be sold by weight in Europe), each of which is cut into twelve rolls. The proportions for twelve rolls should therefore be about as follows: 1-4 pound of flour, 1-5 pints milk and water, 1-10 ounce pressed yeast, and 1-32 ounce of salt. The small masses of dough have a thickness of three-quarters of an inch, and the workman, laying the back of his left forefinger in the centre of one, pulls out and folds up the corners of the irregular mass, and pinches them together. The little lump of dough is then reversed upon a smooth board, and after remaining there long enough to finish "rising," they are placed in the hot oven by means of a wooden shovel.

The Yeast.—Pressed yeast, which is now made in America, is obtained by skimming the froth from mash while it is in active fermentation. The yeast is repeatedly washed with cold water until it settles pure and white in the water. It forms a tenacious mass which is pressed in a bag. It will keep about eight days in summer, and indefinitely if put on ice.

The Flour.—Only a selected part of the flour is used in Vienna for the manufacture of white bread and rolls, amounting to about forty-five per cent. of the wheat. Precisely the same grades are not produced in the American process of milling, but Dr. Horsford thinks that good, fresh middlings flour will compare favorably with the average Hungarian flour.

The Milling.—A peculiar mode of milling wheat has grown up in Austria and Hungary, which is almost the antipodes of the old and crude methods of grinding. It is called "high milling," and consists in cracking the wheat by successive operations down to the required size. First the wheat is run through a coarse mill, which takes off the beard at one end and the germ at the other. The resulting powder is then sifted, to separate the grits from the dross and flour, and the central part is again cracked, and the products sifted. Some flour is produced in each of these steps, but the best of the wheat kernel is still in the condition of grits, and the bran and outer coat of the kernel having been separated by the sifting, the pure grits are now cracked once more, and number one flour is produced. All the other flour from these three operations is purified from bran, mixed and ground, making number two flour. In short, the essential characteristic of the Austrian system of milling lies in a gradual process of reducing the wheat, with careful separation of the products, or cleaning, at each step. These products are quite numerous, as the following list shows:

Class. Percentage.
A.   4.25 Curly bracket Lady groats.
B. Table groats, fine.
C. Table groats, coarse.
0. Extra imperial flour.
1. 5.53   Extra fine flour.
2. 5.76   Ordinary fine flour.
3. 5.51   Extra roll or semmel flour.
4. 6.48   Common roll or semmel flour.
5. 7.12   First pollen flour.
6. 13.30   Second pollen flour.
7. 11.85   First dust flour.
8. 9.95   Second dust flour.
9. 4.36   Brown pollen flour.
10. 6.32   Fort flour.
F. 8.94   Fine bran.
G. 6.87   Coarse bran.
H. 3.76   Chicken feed, loss, and dirt.

This chicken feed consists of the foreign seeds, the tares, which grow up with the wheat, and which are separated before milling. In the above list only 39 to 40 per cent. of the flour is fit for white bread making.

The Wheat.—Last of all, in following back the processes of Vienna bread making, we come to one of the essential requirements, a proper kind of wheat. "The virtues of this bread," says Dr. Horsford, "had their origin principally in the Hungarian wheat. These are not due to any particular variety of wheat, or to any marked peculiarity of soil or mode of fertilizing, or to a mean annual temperature characterizing the climate of Hungary as a whole, but to a peculiarity of climate, uniting especial dryness of the air during the hot season, from the time of the development of the milk of the berry, through the period of its segregation of the various constituents of the grain, down to its being housed for thrashing." The Hungarian wheat is red, shrivelled, and hard, and it is this hardness that fits it so well to the successive crackings which constitute the process of "high milling."

Vienna bread is white, fine grained, perfectly sweet, aromatic, agreeable without butter, thoroughly baked, and has a tender crust, and Dr. Horsford shows dearly that this combination of excellences is not the result of an art, but of the joint operation of many arts. Its introduction may be made an economical act, for its peculiar succulence makes butter or other condiment unnecessary. It is, however, essentially a baker's bread, for it should be eaten on the day it is made, and is at its best immediately after becoming cold. There is little room for expecting it to replace the kind of bread in vogue in American homes, for that is just as much the result of peculiar circumstances as the product of the Hungarian farm, the Austrian mill, and the Vienna oven. Economy in labor is just as much a consideration in most American families as it is in our workshops, and the semi-weekly or weekly baking is the means by which it is obtained. But American housewives can improve their bread by adopting from the Austrian system the whitening of the yeast by washing, the small loaf, and the rapid baking. The use of selected flour can hardly be obtained unless the millers are offered a market for the darker flour that remains. In Europe that is at hand in the nutritious "black" bread which is everywhere the staff of life, white bread being a luxury taken only with coffee. In fact it is American cake that the Vienna roll comes in competition with, and the habit of making cake almost daily, which obtains in so many American homes, shows that there is time and labor which can be turned to the production of the Vienna bread if desired.



The German government has just published the official statistics of the losses in the war with France. The total killed and wounded was 3,919 officers and 60,978 men. The killed and dead of wounds were 1,374 officers and 16,877 men, the proportion being 1 killed to 3.44 wounded among the officers, and 1 to 5 among the men. The infantry lost 57,943, artillery 4,266, and cavalry 2,236. Fighting in line, and at such a distance as modern weapons command, have made the loss by artillery a minimum; 5,084 of the casualties being due to artillery and 55,862 to rifle practice. One noteworthy item is the proportion—12,717 out of the whole number—that were struck about the head and shoulders. This is held to show that the French troops fired high, but it may also be due to the attention now paid to field defences. It is quite possible also that all modern rifles are sighted a trifle too high.



The Secretary of the Treasury has lately issued a circular which affects rather uncomfortably the interests of educational, scientific, and literary institutions. They are allowed by law to import books, instruments, and illustrative collections free of duty, and the Secretary now says that the sale or distribution of articles imported in this way will not be allowed. They must be retained in the institutions that bring them into the country. It is quite probable that advantage has sometimes been taken of the law's liberality in this respect, but we fear this circular will really defeat the purpose of the law. Collections of all kinds in colleges and schools are kept up by a system of exchange, which is very necessary to them on account of the small sums of money at their disposal. To break up this system in the case of European specimens would be especially hard, for each institution would then be forced to import single specimens at much greater cost and trouble; or what is more likely, it would be found cheaper to pay the duty; that is, purchase through a dealer. So long as the exchange is confined to the circle of institutions which the law was designed to benefit, we cannot see that its provisions are unduly taken advantage of.



Dr. Agnew, the celebrated oculist of New York, has indicated his idea of a school for little children, in which health should be a first consideration, as follows: "If we could effect some alterations in the style of school architecture in our school houses, especially the primary departments, it would be a great desideratum. One of the greatest evils at present existing is the method of constructing the school room and of conducting the same. I never could understand why children of the primary age are kept sitting on benches for a large number of hours at a time. School houses ought to be built like the hospital building at the corner of Lexington avenue and Forty-second street, used for cripples, where there is in the upper story a large room, called the solarium, which is in fact a large play room, exposed to the sun, where these little ones are kept the greater part of the time. The upper story of the school houses should be so constructed; and children should be encouraged to bring their toys and playthings with them; and then, instead of changing the age of admission from four years, it might be kept as it is; and instead of shortening the hours of attendance, lengthen them. Of course it should be taken for granted that the school house is constructed for the accommodation of the poor children, and in this light it would be better that such children should spend most of the day in school houses having good sanitary conditions, rather than, as they now do, in tenement houses. Thus you would have these primary schools with plenty of air and light, which you can get in the upper story, and children would be glad to come early, and remain until three or four o'clock, or even later in the afternoon."



Dr. J. G. Richardson of Philadelphia, whose views upon the subject of proving blood stains by the use of the microscope have been described in this Miscellany, has lately prepared slides for the microscope so as to show blood corpuscles from two different animals on the same field. He did this by flowing two drops of blood down the slide, and nearly in contact. Dr. C. L. Mees has modified this proceeding. He spreads the blood by Johnston's method, which is to touch a drop of blood to the accurately ground edge of a slide, and then draw it gently over the face of the other slide, leaving a beautifully spread film. In this way one kind of blood is spread upon the slide, and another on the cover. When dry, one half of each is carefully scraped off with a smoothly sharpened knife, and the cover inverted upon the slide in such position as to bring the remaining portions of the film into apposition. When thus prepared the magnified image can be photographed.



The Peabody Academy of Science at Salem, Massachusetts, will open the second session of its summer school of biology July 6, the course to continue for six weeks. Four days in each week will be given to lectures and laboratory work, and one day to a dredging expedition. Entomology, together with spiders, crustacea, and vertebrate anatomy, will be the especial subjects of study this year, and as usual the advantages enjoyed by this institution for studying marine zoology will be fully utilized. Dr. A. S. Packard, assisted by Messrs. Emerton and Kingsley, will have charge of zoölogy, Mr. Robinson of botany, Rev. Mr. Bolles of microscopy, and Mr. Cooke of the dredging parties. Fees, $15, or for lectures only, $5. Board $5 to $7 weekly. Application should be made to Dr. Packard.

A four weeks' school will be opened at the State normal school, West Chester, Pennsylvania, beginning July 11. Zoölogy and botany will be taught by Prof. M. W. Harrington, geology and physiological chemistry by Mr. V. C. Vaughan, and mineralogy by George G. Groff, all these gentlemen being connected with the University of Michigan. Elocution and industrial drawing will also be taught. Fees are for board and tuition $30, and tuition alone $12. Apply to Mr. George L. Maris, principal.

Scientific excursions seem to be the order of the day. Mr. Woodruff of Detroit has planned one to make the tour of the world; and Mr. J. B. Steere of Michigan university, who spent several years in a journey of scientific character, says: "The expedition will probably leave New York in October or November next, going directly to the mouth of the Amazon, where some time will be spent in making collections in natural history. The island of Marajo will be the principal field for this work. Rio Janeiro will probably be called in at, on the way to the Straits of Magellan, which will be reached in January or February (the summer season there), and a stay will be made for the purpose of collecting. The expedition will then make its way northwest, cruising among several of the rarely visited groups of islands in the central Pacific, where there is every opportunity for making large and valuable collections of sea shells and corals as well as of the myriads of other and rarer things brought up by the dredge. Some stay will probably be made in New Guinea; but the next great object of interest will be the island of Borneo. It is supposed that the northeast and central part of this great island, which are the parts still unknown, can be best reached through the assistance of the Dutch traders at Macassar on the island of Celebes, where the expedition will touch on its way. It seems probable that entering from the east side, with the proper guides and interpreters, the interior of the island can be reached and explored, and perhaps a party may be able to reach the west coast. Borneo is less known than Central Africa, and there is a grand opportunity here for Americans to solve the great problem of its interior lakes and plateaus. A journey through an unexplored country like this cannot fail also to give opportunity for collecting many new species of animals and plants. From Borneo the expedition will make its way to the Philippine islands, where there is great room still for discovery, not only in natural history, but also in fixing the geographical knowledge of the islands, which is at present very faulty. Several of the larger islands of the group are entirely unknown in respect to their animal and vegetable life. From the Philippines the expedition will go to the island of Formosa, off the coast of China. This island is rich in objects of interest to the naturalist, and the east and central parts of the island are unknown. There are Chinese traders who visit the west coast for the purpose of trade with the natives, and through their help there is no doubt that much new work can be done in that locality. The expedition will then visit Canton, and some others of the coast towns of China, and begin its return voyage by way of Singapore, which is a depot for all that is rare and curious in the East. Ceylon will then be touched at, and the expedition will pass through the Red sea and Suez canal. It is intended to spend some time in the Mediterranean in visiting various places of interest, and to return home by way of England. The voyage is expected to occupy two years' time, and to cost students $2,500 per year, this sum paying costs of expeditions inland and everything except personal expenses, clothing, etc. All the collections made will belong to those who make them." This plan seems to follow about the same line as Mr. Steere's own journey, and it would certainly be a great advantage to the excursionists to be under the guidance of an explorer who has so lately been over the ground. We believe the company is nearly completed.

A similar trip is proposed in France, where a society supported by the liberality of M. Bischofsheim, the well known banker, has been formed for the purpose of encouraging periodical voyages. The travellers will be scientific men, Dwuyn l'Lhuys being at their head, and as in the American expedition, the vessel will be commanded by a naval officer. The first voyage will be from Marseilles, and will occupy less than a year, the line of travel being to America and India.



Prof. Leone Levi, in a lecture to workingmen on "Work and Wages," estimated the amount of capital required to carry on some of the industries in Great Britain. There are 20,000,000 acres of land cultivated, which at £8 is £160,000,000. The cotton trade requires £80,000,000, wool trade £30,000,000, iron trade £30,000,000, merchant marine £70,000,000; railways have £600,000,000 invested in them, and the waterworks, gasworks, docks, and other undertakings all call for similar vast sums. Construction may be considered as the fixation of work, and here we have about a thousand million pounds worth of fixed labor. Labor in use deals with figures and values that are quite as large. The annual industrial production of France is £480,000,000, and of this £200,000,000 is labor, the remainder being called material, though if the items of its cost were ascertained, current labor would be found to make up a great portion of that sum also.

But taking French manufactures as they are reported, we can obtain from them an estimate of the value of machines. The first steam engine was introduced into that country by the city of Paris in 1789, the year of revolution. At that time the cost of labor in manufactures was 60 per cent. and of material 40 per cent. of the whole cost. On this basis the £280,000,000 worth of material used now would require £420,000,000 of labor to work it up. The present industrial population of France is 8,400,000, though all are not fully effective, and on the old basis this would have to be increased to 17,640,000 persons. The other divisions of population, tradesmen, etc., would also increase, and the result is finally apparent that France is not large enough to contain and raise food for the people that would be needed to carry on the modern business on the old methods. The man power of the steam machinery introduced into the industries is estimated at 31,500,000, and as it replaces £220,000,000 worth of labor, we may reckon the wages of a steam man power at £7, or $35, per year, exclusive of food (fuel) and lodging.



The chemical character of the coloring matter in the negro's skin has been investigated by Dr. F. P. Floyd, in the laboratory of the University of Virginia. Strips of skin were well washed with water and alcohol, in order to remove fatty matter, and then cautiously scraped with a blunt scalpel, to loosen up the pigment granules. This must be carefully done, for an examination of the scraped skin shows that the whole substance of the cuticular tissue may easily be broken up and mingled with the pigment, which cannot then be obtained pure. But by selecting the most strongly colored parts and treating them carefully, the following points were established: The coloring matter is insoluble in water, alcohol, and ether. It is also unaffected by dilute acids or dilute solutions of alkali. The strong acids, even concentrated nitric acid, attack it but slowly. Chlorine destroys it especially in presence of alkali. Heated for some time with a strong solution of sodium hydrate, it is gradually dissolved, and from the diluted solution it may be partially precipitated on neutralization with an acid. The ash of the negro skin gave twice as much ash as the white skin, or 2.4 per cent. against 1.15 per cent. Analyses of the ash for iron showed 2.28 per cent. of metallic iron in the black and 1.21 per cent. in the white skin. These facts confirm the general impression that the color of the negro's skin is nearly allied to the "melanin," or black pigment of the choroid coat in the eye. Both seem to be products of alteration of the blood.

This pigment appears to be similar to or identical with the black coloring matter of feathers. When perfectly white hair or feathers are heated gently with dilute sulphuric acid, they dissolve completely, though slowly. Black or brown feathers leave an insoluble residue. This subject was lately presented to the London Chemical Society by Messrs. W. R. Hodgkinson and H. C. Sorby. They took feathers of the English rook, which contain one per cent. of pigment, and having cut the vanes from the central rib, cleaned them from fat by treatment with alcoholic ammonia. Warm dilute sulphuric acid was then applied, until it was no longer colored, and the residue was treated with dilute hydrochloric acid and boiling alcohol and ether. Black pigment is usually found in black, brown, and dark red hair, but in the latter it is associated with a brown pigment that is soluble in dilute sulphuric acid.

Experiments were made by Dr. Floyd to determine the position of the pigment in the negro's skin. Many Southern physicians are under the impression that a blister upon the black skin is white, or nearly so. But this was disproved by experiment, and the microscope showed that the granules were dispersed through the whole of the cuticle, though less dense at the surface than in the deeper tissues. In fact Dr. Floyd thinks that the pigment originates in the outer layer of true skin, "its production being probably connected with the loss of vitality of the cells, and that it accompanies those cells all the way to the surface, where it is mechanically removed by desquamation." The alteration of the red blood corpuscles to black pigment may be due to feeble circulation in the superficial capillaries. The diseases of negroes, and their extreme sensitiveness to low temperatures, sustain this view.



The jurisdiction of London extends over 756 square miles; its area embraces 78,000 acres. It contains 4,000,000 of inhabitants, increasing at the rate of 75,000 a year, of various nationalities.

The rapidity of sewing machine work, even when not working beyond an ordinary manufacturing speed, is seen in the manufacture of 110 three-bushel sacks per hour, containing 35,640 stitches, or close on 600 per minute.

The pine woods of Michigan are said to contain in standing trees—

In Eastern Michigan 13,500,000,000 feet.
In Western Michigan 11,500,000,000 "
In Upper Peninsular 19,500,000,000 "
Total 44,500,000,000  

A manufacturer lately sued the city of Paris for about $15,000 on the ground that the water supplied by the new works was so good that he could not make gelatine, and his business was therefore ruined! The suit was dismissed with costs.

A paste made of fifty-one parts of finely shaved stearine, melted in seventy-two parts of previously warmed oil of turpentine, will restore the polish to furniture. When cool rub on with a woollen rag, and when dry rub thoroughly with a clean dry cloth.

This winter is said to have been the coldest known in Russia for 153 years! In St. Petersburg the thermometer has been -32 deg. Reaumur, or 40 deg. below zero, Fahrenheit. Drivers have frozen in their seats, and the police kept large fires burning in the streets at night.

The difference between exploding powder under water and above ground is shown in the relative effect of 50,000 pounds of giant powder fired in the great Hell Gate blast, and the small quantity of 370 pounds of black powder which is the service charge of the 80-ton cannon at Shoebury, England. The former made but little shock or sound. The latter has shaken houses to pieces by the force of the concussion wave produced in the air. The first blood shed by the gun was that of a half dozen sea gulls. A canister shot, containing 2,170 balls, burst just in front of a large flock of them.

The United States issued 15,911 patents in 1876, and received 22,408 applications.

Important works in construction and other branches of engineering are now sometimes continued at night by means of the electric light. The buildings for the French international exhibition are pushed in this way, and the method is used at the Taybridge Works and others in England.

Among the interesting facts which have been developed by the careful study of ants is the existence of piracy among them. Mr. McCook has noticed that ants descending from trees with abdomens full of honey dew were waited for by workers from the hill, seeking food, and compelled to disgorge their accumulations. If this was not done willingly, force was used.

The walrus has a singular mode of adapting his attack upon enemies to the circumstances in which he is placed. They can shiver ice from four to six inches thick by rising from below and striking it with their huge heads. An exploring party near Novaya Zemla, while walking over a field of new ice, noticed a herd of walruses following them under the ice. They presently began operations, and broke the field in pieces on all sides of the party, which barely escaped by running for the main pack ice near by.

Oxford university, England, has a revenue of about $2,000,000 yearly, 43 professors, 160 lecturers and tutors, 2,400 undergraduates (1875), of whom 24 per cent. hold scholarships worth from $150 to $500 yearly. Seventy-five per cent. of these read for honors as follows: 33 per cent. for the school of Literæ Humaniores (philosophy, classical history, and philology), 20 per cent. for the school of modern history, 17 per cent. theology, 15 per cent. law, 7 per cent. mathematics, and 6.5 per cent. physical science. There are 360 fellows, of whom 140 are resident and engaged in teaching. The average endowment of a fellowship is $1,250. The average number of pupils to one professor or teacher is in Literæ Humaniores 5 1-2; in mathematics 6, in physical science 7, in modern history 5, in law 15 1-2.

Prof. von Zech lately mingled politics and science in a paper read before the Wurtemburg Anthropological Society. He compared the returns of a recent election with the known ethnological characteristics of the kingdom of Wurtemburg, and found that in districts where light hair and eyes predominated the government won the election. The black-haired and black-eyed portions of the population seemed to favor democracy and social reform, and the Ultramontanes form a medium class so far as complexion is concerned.

The misfortunes of the deaf and dumb are greatly lessened by the substitution of lip-reading for other modes of conversation. The words are read from the movement of the lips so that the deaf can join in an ordinary conversation. In beginning the instruction the lips must be moved slowly, but in time the pupil gains such facility that the words of a public speaker can be taken as well by a deaf person in the audience as by any other. Deaf mutes are frequently very intelligent, and it may be that the "kindergarten" system, which is a necessity in their case, has something to do with their proficiency. In the Clark Institute children are received at the age of five years, and the first year's instruction consists in laying sticks and rings in designs imitated from the teacher. Weaving, card pricking, and drawing are also taught. From this beginning the pupil's development goes on through physical studies, such as zoölogy, botany, physiology, and geography. After these come higher mathematics, geology, chemistry, history, psychology, etc.



It would seem, or rather it would have seemed, almost impossible to present Shakespeare in any new light, so much has been written by the wise and the foolish, the learned and the ignorant, the bright and the dull, the competent and the incompetent, upon that marvellous man. But Mr. George Wilkes has managed to write a goodly octavo which, while it contains nothing absolutely new upon this subject, presents it as a whole in a fresh aspect.8 Mr. Wilkes says, in his brief preface, a few words which seem to be candid and truly modest. Rigorous criticism, he tells us, will not be unwelcome, not because he has any vain confidence in his own views, but "because they are put forward in good faith in order to elicit truth concerning a genius who is the richest inheritance of the intellectual world." He adds that he presents his book rather as a series of inquiries than as dogmatic doctrine, and that even if his views are controverted, he must be a gainer, "for it can never be a true source of mortification to relinquish opinions in favor of those which are shown to be better." This is indeed the fairest, best spirit of literary candor, and it is expressed with manly ingenuousness. If the author really feels what he utters so well, and we are both bound and willing to believe that he does so, he has set an example of a virtue which should be very much commoner than it is.

In giving to Mr. Wilkes's book the consideration which is due to its careful and intelligent preparation, we are, however, somewhat puzzled at the outset. What is an American point of view in regard to a literary subject, and above all a subject the historical position of which is previous, not only to the Declaration of Independence, but to the settlement of New England? We can apprehend what an "American" point of view might be as to a question of politics, or of society, or even of morals, in the present day; but what such a distinctive view could be even on those subjects, considered as they present themselves at a time when our forefathers, just like the forefathers of the present British people, were in England or in Scotland, we can hardly divine. And as to literature, the difficulty seems still greater. For, in the first place, literature and art are of no country and no time, except historically, and moreover the literature of a language and a race belong to that race and the speakers of that language wherever they may be. A man of English blood and speech loses no right in Shakespeare, he loses no right in any English author, because he happens to be born in New England instead of Old England, or in Australia instead of the Isle of Wight or of Man. Political divisions have nothing to do with literature. We hear nothing of Prussian literature or of Austrian literature; it is all German—"Deutsch." And the eminent German philologist Mentzner, in his great English grammar, that awful book in three octavo volumes, draws for his countless illustrations quite as freely upon Bryant, Irving, Longfellow, Hawthorne, Prescott, and their countrymen, as upon Tennyson, Browning, Macaulay, and theirs. English literature is the literature of the English race wherever it may be. It has nothing to do with the distinctions British and American. They are political only. This is true of all literature, even that of the day; but especially and absolutely is it true of all English literature that was produced before there was any New England. Shakespeare belongs to the people now in England because when he wrote he and their forefathers lived together in England and spoke the same tongue; and exactly for that reason he belongs to all of us here who are of his race and tongue. There is not the slightest difference between the relations of the two people to the one man. This consideration applies, without qualification, to all English literature before 1620; with slight external, unessential modification, to that between 1620 and 1776; and with somewhat greater external, but still unessential modification, to all that has been produced since.

Mr. Wilkes, however, may reasonably reply that while he may or may not agree with this view of English literature, there is in either case an American point of view as to every subject—a view taken from the position in which Americans stand politically and socially; a position which affects their vision and their judgment of all subjects, including literature, even in the form of dramatic poetry, the most absolute form in which it can exist. He is to a certain extent right; and waiving the question as to whether such a view is likely to have any peculiar value, particularly in regard to dramatic poems produced in the other hemisphere nearly three hundred years ago, let us see what in this guise Mr. Wilkes has to present to us.

He opens his book with a reference to the "Baconian theory," as it is called; that is, the notion that the plays published in 1623 as "Mr. William Shakespeare's Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies," were actually written by the great Bacon, incorrectly called Lord Bacon. This notion, which may in a certain sense be called "American," because of its setting forth by Miss Delia Bacon, a New England woman, some twenty years ago, is not and never was worth five minutes' serious consideration by any sane human being. It is too foolish to be talked about. No man who really knows anything about the subject has ever given this fancy a moment's entertainment; and we regret to see that Mr. Wilkes is at the pains of examining it carefully all through his book. It is not worthy of refutation. We therefore set small store by the probabilities which he accumulates against it. There is no more ground for reasonable doubt that William Shakespeare did and Francis Bacon did not write the plays attributed to the former than there is for doubt that Horace Greeley did and William Henry Seward did not edit the "Tribune" between the years 1845 and 1865. That Bacon was their author is indeed an American point of view, it having been taken not only by Miss Bacon, but by Judge Holmes of Missouri, and by an unknown American writer in "Frazer's Magazine" for August, 1874. But we are inclined to think that Miss Bacon's book is unknown to Mr. Wilkes except at second hand, else he would not speak of that tremendous octavo tome as a "pamphlet," which he does twice. It was as heavy metaphorically as it was in avoirdupois. It fell dead from the press. Nathaniel Hawthorne, who wrote the introduction to it, says in his "Old Home" that he believes that it never had but one reader, a young man of his acquaintance. He probably had not seen Mr. Grant White's statement, made in some of his Shakespearian books or writings, that "for his sins" he had read every word of it. And we must say from our knowledge of it, that the reading ought to go largely to his credit in his account with purgatory. Judge Holmes's book is very able and ingenious; so much so that it is to be regretted that he did not give his learning and his reasoning powers to better business. In Mr. Wilkes's book we probably have heard the last of this American view of Shakespeare.

Our author also gives much attention to the questions of Shakespeare's religious faith and his knowledge of the law. He is of the opinion that Shakespeare was a Roman Catholic, and that he had not studied law. In both cases we think Mr. Wilkes wrong. Such evidence as Shakespeare's works afford goes, we think, decidedly in favor of their writer's having been a Protestant of unusually "broad church" views for his time, and of his having made some study at least of the attorney's part of law. After considering all that Mr. Wilkes urges, we find nothing in his ingeniously extracted evidence to shake our faith in these probabilities. But in any case all this is of small importance. Suppose Shakespeare to have been a Romanist, and never to have entered an attorney's office: of what moment are these conclusions to the reader of his plays? The facts were important to Shakespeare himself, but are of only the slightest interest to any one else.

Mr. Wilkes's American point of view is finally and chiefly that which he takes of Shakespeare's social feeling, according to his—Mr. Wilkes's—conception of it. He says of him that it seems strange that "unlike all the great geniuses of the world who had come before or [have] come after him, he should be the only one so deficient in that beneficent tenderness toward his race, so vacant of those sympathies which usually accompany intellectual power, as never to have been betrayed into one generous aspiration in favor of popular liberty. Nay, worse than this, worse than his servility to royalty and rank, we never find him speaking of the poor with respect, or alluding to the working classes without detestation or contempt." This view of the great poet-dramatist is repeated over and over again, all through Mr. Wilkes's book. The point is not a new one. It has been considered by one or two of Mr. Wilkes's predecessors, and has been set aside as of no significance by those who have brought it up for consideration. We cannot congratulate Mr. Wilkes upon his success in establishing his position. The subject is of some interest, and for example we take Mr. Wilkes's remarks in his twenty-third chapter, which is entirely devoted to the support he finds for it in the first part of "Henry VI." He quotes passages in which La Pucelle (Joan of Arc) calls herself "a shepherd's daughter," speaks of her "contemptible estate," and her "base vocation"; in which Talbot expresses his insulted feeling at a proposal that he, when a prisoner, should have been proposed in exchange for a "baser man of arms," and in which he and other noblemen speak with contempt of peasants. And then he exclaims, "Lords, lords, lords; nothing but princes and lords, and The People never alluded to except as worthless peasants, or to be scorned as scabs, and hedge-born swains." The reply to all this is much like the famous one as to the stealing of the kettle; which was first, that the defendant did not take the kettle; next that he returned it; and finally that the plaintiff never had any kettle. First these sentiments are not put forth as those of the writer of the play, but as those of the personages who figured in the historical incidents therein dramatized; next it is undeniable that such were the feelings which noblemen and gentlemen of Henry VI.'s time, and of the time when this play was written, had and expressed toward peasants; and finally, whether or no it makes no difference as to Shakespeare's sentiments in regard to his humbler fellow men; for Shakespeare did not write this play. No editor or competent critic of Shakespeare believes that Shakespeare wrote one single scene of the first part of "King Henry VI." True the same feeling is expressed by noblemen and gentlemen in plays which Shakespeare did write; and we notice this particular passage chiefly because of its evidence that Mr. Wilkes, although an intelligent and careful reader of Shakespeare, is not sufficiently acquainted with the history and the literature of his time, or with dramatic literature generally, to undertake to pass judgment upon Shakespeare from the higher points of view, however he may be so to judge him from "an American point of view." For the assertion that Shakespeare was in this respect "unlike all the great geniuses of the world" is absolutely untrue. If Mr. Wilkes will carefully examine the works of the playwrights contemporary with Shakespeare, he will find their dramatis personæ equally made up of "lords, lords, lords," and he will find the lords speaking in just such a way of the common people. If they did not do so, the portraiture would be unfaithful; it would not "hold the mirror up to nature." And if he will look through the plays of Molière, who stands next to Shakespeare as a dramatist, and who was like him a player and a man of the people, he will find all the lords and gentlemen who ruffle through his delightful pages speaking with contempt and ridicule of the lower classes. Moreover, it is absolutely untrue that Shakespeare was even thus indirectly a sycophant to kings and nobles, and a maintainer of their essential superiority. On fitting occasions he puts into their own mouths satires against themselves, their rank, and their pretensions; and he shows, when opportunity offers, a warm sympathy with and tenderness for the lowly and the oppressed. Whoever chooses to do so may find this shown in a few pages of Mr. Grant White's essay on Shakespeare's genius. ("Life and Genius of Shakespeare," pp. 298-302.) If we are to have a peculiarly American view of Shakespeare, pray let us have one founded upon thorough knowledge and taken in a fair spirit. Not that we mean that Mr. Wilkes is intentionally unfair, but that his judgment has been perverted by his strong democratic feeling, and that he seems not to have been able to investigate his subject with the research which it properly demands.

We are sorry to observe also a reckless tone of disparagement running through Mr. Wilkes's book. True, Shakespeare's reputation may be able to bear it; but for the very reason of Shakespeare's preëminence the world—the thoughtful part of it at least—would welcome a close, careful, and competent examination of his claims, even in an adverse spirit. Such an examination Mr. Wilkes, notwithstanding the voluminousness and the method of his book, has not been able to give them. It is not—for example, in his chapter on the "Merchant of Venice"—by calling Antonio a "blackguard" and a "ruffian," and Bassanio "an unprincipled, penniless adventurer, a mere tavern spendthrift and carouser, who borrows money that he may cheat a wealthy maiden of her dower," by calling Gratiano and Lorenzo "poodles and parasites," the first of whom "is willing to put up with Portia's waiting maid Nerissa," that Mr. Wilkes can hope to win respect for an American view of Shakespeare. If Mr. Wilkes had informed himself more thoroughly in regard to the manners of Antonio's time, he would have found that in those days men, otherwise kind-hearted and generous, treated Jews as he treated Shylock; that Nerissa was probably, if not surely, as well born and as well bred as her mistress was; and that Bassanio's desire to marry an heiress, beautiful, loving, and by him beloved, was not peculiar to the hero of the "Merchant of Venice." Indeed, very estimable men have not been found averse to such a proceeding in these days, and even in America. And what is strange the beautiful heiresses have forgiven them, and if they behaved kindly and lovingly as husbands, have been very happy, strange as it may seem. Why should Mr. Wilkes speak of Bassanio's going to Belmont "to swindle Portia"? He does no such thing. Such criticism of Shakespeare, if it were truly and representatively American, would justly hold America up to the world's ridicule.

Scattered through Mr. Wilkes's book, making us regret the more such passages as we have noticed, are others which show fine insight and robust common sense. In this very chapter on the "Merchant of Venice" there are two or three pages of sound criticism of the dull and pompous platitudes of the sham-profound German critics, for which we thank the author. They are well and heartily written, and they do not overstep the bounds of literary decorum. In many parts, Mr. Wilkes's book, although it is a very unsafe guide, contains stimulating suggestions to reflection.

Lord Amberly, the recently deceased son and heir of Earl Russel, left an elaborate work behind him upon the religions of the world, which has just been republished here.9 Apart from its teachings, or rather its tendencies, which would be stamped as "infidel" by all orthodox Christians, the book is valuable. For it is the result of very profound, painstaking research. It contains nothing particularly new, but it presents, in a tolerably compact form, a critical view of the whole subject of religious beliefs and ceremonies, in all time and in all countries. Its author evidently means to be fair; and from his point of view he is so. The book is full of information upon a subject which is now attracting unusual attention from a class of minds which, twenty-five or thirty years ago, would have shrunk in horror from any such examination; and its value in this respect is enhanced by an index, which makes it a useful book of reference.

—Mr. Frothingham, who has rapidly taken the place of leader in a new school of morals and religion, but whose followers are yet few, has added another book to those which have been recently noticed in our pages.10 It is composed of some of those discourses—for they cannot be called sermons, in the ordinary sense of the word—which he delivers to his disciples on Sunday; delivering them on that day because it is convenient for the purpose. It must be admitted that they teach a very high and pure morality. But we confess that the title of the book, "The Spirit of the New Faith," seems to us a misnomer; for we seek in it in vain for the evidences of any faith. Indeed, its principal object seems to be the inculcation of morality without faith; the teaching that, to an upright life—truly Christian, that is, in spirit—(for Mr. Frothingham would probably spurn the name) no faith of any sort is necessary. In the sermon—not the first in order—which gives the volume its name, we remark a strange perversion or misconception of the chiefest Christian virtue. Mr. Frothingham writes in a kindly, generous spirit which excludes scorn; but he approaches scorn in his remarks upon charity, at which he almost scoffs. He says of it: "Charity is not equivalent to brotherhood; it is not synonymous with brotherhood, or even with appreciation. Charity can be unjust: it is unjust in its pity. Pity, indeed, is its essence." Were this a true definition of charity, Mr. Frothingham might be justified in the tone he takes toward it. But the very spirit of charity is at war not only with injustice, but with arrogance, and with phariseeism of all kinds. Its very essence is the assumption of good motives, even on the part of those who differ radically from us in conduct and belief. It is the great moral equalizer of the world. We are surprised that a thinker of Mr. Frothingham's clearness and subtlety of mind should have so failed in appreciating a quality which does not inculcate, but which is love and respect for others.

Few persons are aware of the vast and varied range of duties which are connected with what is called, "for short," a geological and geographical survey of the Territories.11 The second edition of the catalogue of publications made in connection with the survey, of which Dr. F. V. Hayden is director, enumerates forty-one publications issued within ten years, among which are annual reports of the work done since 1867, bulletins, the issue of which began in 1874, and important monographs on ancient and modern fauna and flora of the region examined. Dr. Hayden's own geological work is necessarily limited by his heavy duties as director of the whole survey, but his long study of the West gives him unusual qualifications for assembling and discussing the work of others. He has a minute description with map of the Upper Arkansas valley and its glaciation, and of the old lake system of the West. During the early portion of the Tertiary the whole country, "from the Arctic circle to the Isthmus of Darien," was occupied with lakes, some of which were immense in size. In after times thousands of small lakes took their place, and these have finally disappeared. Many of these were expansions of the rivers, like most modern lakes. The old valleys are now occupied by a diluvial deposit, the counterpart of the Loess of the Rhine, and almost the same in composition. The agricultural future of all that valley region is very promising, for from some mysterious cause, the rainfall seems to be increasing over the whole area. Buried trees of great size prove that Nebraska has not always been the grassy waste it now is, and the revolutions of nature may restore its forests. Mr. Aughey figures some arrow-heads which he found in this deposit fifteen and twenty feet from the top, and in such a position as to assure him of their true age. Leaving the admirable geological study of Dr. Peale, we come to Mr. Eudlich's examination of the San Juan mines. This is a kind of work which government explorers should do more of, though until the mines are worked deeper, the information obtained is not very full. The veins are reported to be probably of Cretaceous age, or they may date from the beginning of the Tertiary. Dr. Hayden reports that when the coming season's work is finished "the most rugged and mountainous portion of our continent" will have been surveyed. It is his intention to map it in an atlas of six sheets, each covering about 11,500 square miles. The cartographical work of the survey is excellent. This volume contains eighty-eight maps and views, executed in a most creditable manner.

—We have also received two of the "Miscellaneous Publications"12 of the survey, one being the last and crowning work of America's great invertebrate palæontologist, Dr. F. B. Meek.13 The names "Meek and Hayden" have an association in American scientific work that is historic, and in the "Report on Invertebrate, Cretaceous, and Tertiary Fossils of the Upper Missouri Country" are assembled the results of painstaking labors extending through many years. The volume is worthy to stand as a monument to such an author. The introduction contains a description, in the author's characteristically concise style, of the formations in which the fossils were found. The fossils described include all the invertebrates from the prescribed region, and it is indicative of the author's position in regard to palæontological work in America, that nearly all the species were originally described by him. This profound knowledge of the subject and the painstaking attention to the discussion of types, and of their synonomy, make the work, as Dr. Hayden truly says, "one of the most important contributions ever made to the science of palæontology in any portion of the world." Forty-five lithographic plates, by Meek and Swinton, and numerous woodcuts, illustrate the book.

—Dr. Packard's "Monograph of the Geometrid Moths"14 is the next important publication of this survey. It is the first complete treatise on the American species of these moths. The author describes between three and four hundred species, and thinks it not unlikely that nearly a thousand will be ultimately found on the continent. The collections have been made by many travellers, and at points extending from Polaris bay to Texas. Great attention is paid to generic and specific description, and to synonomy, besides which a complete bibliography of the subject is added. Dr. Packard's work is therefore well suited to serve for immediate instruction, as well as a standard for reference. The admirably executed plates increase its value for both uses.

—Captain Ludlow's report of his visit to the Yellowstone Park in 1875 is one of the most interesting books the Government has published.15 He found that the army of American vandals has turned its footsteps toward this national museum of wonders, and every year they go to it in hundreds and thousands to admire and destroy the delicate lace work which nature has spent centuries in weaving. The Park contains the most remarkable glaciers on this continent, and the constantly flowing and splashing water has built up a basin of opal around each fountain. These basins are curiously convoluted and fretted, and are composed almost entirely of quartz deposited from the water, their light gray color contrasting beautifully with the deeply tinted water. Wherever they are solid the idiotic visitor writes his name, and thousands of these unimprisoned lunatics have been there. Wherever the basins are most delicate and wonderful, the savage white man strikes them with an axe and carries home "a specimen." Captain Ludlow found two women climbing around one geyser called the Castle, from the numerous little pinnacles and towers it has built up, "with tucked up skirts and rubber shoes, armed one with an axe, the other with a spade." When he first saw the Beehive, the most remarkable of the geysers in point of height, throwing its stream two hundred feet high from a small aperture, he had a pang in anticipation of the destruction that he felt sure would come upon it. And with good reason. The next day he returned to camp just in time to run in and save the Beehive, the pride of the Park, from the uplifted axe of a woman! He urges the Government to spend $10,000 or thereabouts in protecting this beautiful place from the assaults of these iconoclasts, who break down ten times as much as they carry off. We regret to see that his recommendation is unheeded. A governor is appointed for the Park, but he has no salary, and probably does not remain on the ground. Captain Ludlow very truly says that the presence of a small party there to open roads, preserve the Park, and keep a careful record of the geysers would well repay its cost in the increase of knowledge and pleasurable travel it would bring to our people.

Mr. David A. Wells has made a good choice in presenting Bastiat's writings on political economy,16 for his essays are as sound in principle as they are homely in method. He tried to make people see the true meaning of the phrases and theories which are the common staple of conversation among the industrial classes. For instance, he meets the assertion that a country gains wealth when the government employs a great number of people by pointing out that the personal expenditures of the people are reduced by just the amount of the taxes. When the government takes a dollar from a citizen to pay a laborer, the citizen has just one dollar less to hire the laborer for his own use. The country gains no wealth by such a transaction, but merely makes an exchange of employers. This proposition, which M. Bastiat insists upon through many arguments, is of more vital interest to France than to us. It refers to a form of folly that is chronic there, but sporadic here, and its most threatening outbreak (during the "ring rule" in New York) was violently cured by the panic of 1873. But the importance of inculcating sound views on this subject is just as necessary here as there. Probably the larger part of Tweed's stealings ultimately found their way to laboring men, but who shall say that New York has gained wealth by his career? M. Bastiat's views on interest, capital, taxes, encouragement of fine arts by the State, public works, the spendthrift, government, etc., are excellent, and expressed in an ingenious and taking way. It is hard to give to dissertations on such subjects that "blood-curdling interest" which Mark Twain promised in his agricultural memoranda; but M. Bastiat certainly unites an unusual interest of style to sensible and simple views. Mr. Wells may count the reproduction of these essays as one of the many valuable public services he has done his countrymen.

A hundred and four years have passed since John Howard paid that visit to Bedford jail which first directed his attention to the improvement of the prisoners' condition. The work began with the study of prisons; a hundred years has turned it into the study of the prisoner. Mr. Dugdale17 discovered in 1874 the criminal family which has become notorious as containing Margaret, "the mother of criminals." She was one of six sisters, of whom one is not traceable; four gave rise to mixed criminal and pauper lines, and Margaret to a distinctively criminal line. To these sisters Mr. Dugdale gives the name Jukes, and he has followed up seven generations, containing 540 known persons of Juke blood, and 169 known persons of other blood who became allied to the Jukes in one way or another. All told, this criminal family contains 709 known persons, and probably 500 undiscovered members, forming the most numerous criminal lineage ever studied. Mr. Dugdale's pamphlet is a profoundly interesting analysis of the history of this family, and the tendencies that have governed it. The remarkable fact is developed that the strongest criminal tendencies are on the female side, and pauper tendencies on the male side. Crime and pauperism are psychologically one and the same, one or the other being manifested as the individual's character is strong or weak. A life may exhibit an innocent childhood, a criminal maturity, and a pauper old age. The same phases may be developed more slowly, and appear in successive generations, or even in alternate generations. Intemperance is no doubt frequently the immediate cause of crime, as seen in so many murders. But Mr. Dugdale shows that the common belief that criminal tendencies are the result of intemperance is not true, while the reverse is true, that these tendencies produce physical degeneration, which craves the stimulus of drink. These investigations show that the pauper is almost irreclaimable. His mental weakness neutralizes every effort made for his welfare, but the active criminal has strength enough to do better if he will. As to women, it is shown that their immorality is the precise counterpart of crime in the man, and it is to this fact that we owe the steady development of our criminal population. Illegitimacy is not in itself a cause of crime, but the environment of neglect in which the illegitimate live is a fruitful cause. We cannot detail all the conclusions of this close and exhaustive study of criminal character. They are as numerous as they are disagreeable to read and contemplate.

—Dr. Bowen's pamphlet on "Dyspepsia," published by Loring, is so good, so comforting, and so plain to persons who do not know any more of medicine than is necessary to have the various diseases, that we are glad to point it out to our readers. He says there is no case of dyspepsia that cannot be cured, except such as are complicated with other troubles that are necessarily fatal. He opposes the starvation treatment, but does not give general directions for cure, saying that each case must be studied and treated for itself.

Dr. Stillman's "Seeking the Golden Fleece"18 is worth reading for its faithful picture of a long sea voyage in the olden time. Nearly a hundred passengers left New York in the Pacific, the captain and owner being obliged to slink on board, to avoid attachments sued out against them by other passengers who were dissatisfied and left behind. The voyage consumed 194 days, and the narrative of its incidents is much the most interesting part of the book. As to the author's experience in California, we can sum it up in the common phrase, "The old story." He was one of the first argonauts. He saw Sacramento when it had half-a-dozen shanties, San Francisco when millions of dollars worth of goods lay on the hillsides, for lack of sufficient warehouses, when the mines were yielding well, and cooks were cheap at $300 a month. Dr. Stillman's narrative is one of the best that has appeared of California in the days of the pioneers.

Mr. Habberton shows how fit he is to be the editor of selections from standard authors by publishing the Roger de Coverly papers19 without a note or emendation. We have these celebrated numbers of the "Spectator" in all the grace and humor of the originals, and with the quaint flavor which age has necessarily added to them unimpaired. The editor informs us that after a careful hunt through the book market, he finds the previous editions of Sir Roger out of print, and for that reason he publishes this one, though his first plan for the "Select British Essayists" did not include it. He thinks the publication peculiarly timely now, when "the standard of letters threatens to become vastly different from that under which English literature has gained whatever it possesses of real value." We do not agree with him in anticipating the complete shelving of Sir Roger in case this threatened change really takes place. In all times the really great authors will be read by the few, and talked about by the many. But however that may be, Mr. Habberton's handsome and convenient collection of these papers will be welcomed by the many who are glad to learn how famous authors wrote, and yet have not taste enough for classical reading to attack the whole "Spectator" itself.

The disciples of Swedenborg will read with interest a little book of a mildly controversial character by B. F. Barrett, which endeavors to show what the New Church really is.20 The controversy is not with the unbelievers in Swedenborg, but with some prominent persons among his disciples. Its object is to show that the New Jerusalem, or New Church, is not an organized and visible body of people united by a creed and a form of worship more or less uniform. This view, although, as the writer says, it has prevailed among the students of Swedenborg for nearly a hundred years and is probably held by a large majority of them at the present day, he regards as an utterly mistaken conception. He, on the contrary, regards the theory of separation as false and vicious. The function of Swedenborgianism, if so it must be called, he believes to be to uproot and destroy the mischievous spirit of sect, to exalt charity above faith, life above doctrine, both inside and outside of all the churches. This he regards as that second coming of the Lord which Swedenborg taught; and this he sees in the signs of the times. Few of us know really what Swedenborgianism is; and some of us have tried in vain to discover what there is in it which captivates some clear-headed as well as true-hearted men. But if this be Swedenborgianism, who of us is there that will not bid it God speed?

—"The Library of Swedenborg,"21 edited by Mr. Barrett, is to consist of twelve handy volumes, giving a complete summary of Swedenborg's system in a series of extracts from his writings, grouped together under appropriate headings, indicating the special doctrine they illustrate. These volumes are of the most convenient size and neatly printed and bound. They are, in short, in every respect in contrast with the bulky tomes in which Swedenborg's system is usually and so repulsively presented. Three volumes of the series have thus far been published.

A book the author of which publishes his own portrait as a frontispiece is opened with prejudice by most sensible men, we believe, and phrenology is not regarded with great favor by the majority of such readers. But here is a book which is able to stand up against both these prejudices.22 Whatever we may think of phrenology, we cannot withhold our hearty approval of the methods of teaching which are recommended by Mr. Sizer. He would have the teacher study his pupil, watch the action of his mind, detect his propensities, and then direct his efforts accordingly. The author does not content himself with generalities; he goes into particulars; he indicates temperaments, describes mental traits and modes of action, and gives good counsel as to their direction. His views of training include the moral as well as the mental side of the pupil, and also his physical nature. Children trained according to the system here recommended and set forth would have the most made of them that their organizations permit. We commend the book to all teachers and parents. It will interest them, and if they study it and follow its counsels, it will profit their children. As to the phrenology of it, they may let that go. Like the allegory of "The Faerie Queene," it won't bite them.

In poetry we have before us this month only a sacred tragedy, the writer of which we fear has been misled into verse-writing by an ambition to justify his parents' choice of a name.23 The incidents of his tragedy are of course derived from the Old Testament, and in every case in which they are in any way modified it is for the worse. His poetry reminds us of that dreary stuff that was written before the appearance of Marlowe and the other Elizabethan dramatists. We wonder that the writer undertook a subject which had been so ably handled by others before him, and particularly by Charles Heavysege, to whose vigorous and highly picturesque dramatic poem24 we direct the attention of our poetry-loving readers.



—The result of months of agitation and negotiation is that to Russia is left the task of driving the Turks out of Europe single-handed. Well, Russia is content, and not only content, but pleased. She does not object to being left to seek her own ends by her own means, and would like nothing better than to have all the other powers take the position of disinterested bystanders while she whops poor little Johnny Turk, and takes as much as she likes of his territory by way of indemnity. She meant this all along, and it has been amusing to see how she has with a combination of tact and persistency attained her end. Of course as to her motives there can be no doubt; they are purely philanthropic and religious. It is for the Christians in the Turkish provinces, about whom England began the disturbance, the result of which promises to be Russia's success and her own discomfiture. The attitude of Turkey wins respect and sympathy. It has been manly in tone, and in diplomacy not unskilful. The Turks have always shown a combination of stubbornness and craft which have made them, except in the field, more than a match for their Christian enemies. Without approving Turkish faith or life, we may yet admire the firmness and dignity with which they have refused to submit to a dictation which would exclude them from the rank of independent nations. They made the mistake of not putting the Czar palpably in the wrong, which they would have done by sending the embassy to St. Petersburg to treat of disarmament. But he would have probably wriggled but of this position in some way; and of this they may have felt sure. Plainly the Turks feel that they are in a crisis of their national existence, and they are desperate. They know of course that between Great Britain and Russia there is a determination to drive them out of Europe, and that their only safety thus far has been in the rivalry and jealousy of those two powers. Since the effort is to be made, they feel that they are in as good a condition to resist it now as they ever will be; and with the desperation of their character they have gone into the unequal fight. What will be the end, no one can foresee; but of one thing we may be sure, that the British Government will not fight for the Turks, and as certainly they will not fight with Russia against them. Neither Germany nor Austria is likely to spend blood and treasure for the aggrandizement of Russia. Therefore, although some publicists look for a great change in the map of Europe, it seems rather that the result of the war, even if it be unfavorable to Turkey, will be little more than the liberation and autonomy of one or two of the provinces.

—The personal nature of our politics was never more apparent than it is at present. On all sides, and in regard to all questions, we meet with evidence of it. Whether it be in regard to great questions of national importance, the formation of parties, or some little State or county matter, the point generally first raised is how Mr. —— or Mr. —— will be likely to feel about it. The subject is not discussed upon broad grounds of right, of law, or of policy, but with regard to the effect that it will have upon such or such an "interest," which is represented by Mr. ——, the said interest being sometimes that of a railway, or a "ring," but generally that of a knot of professional politicians. This seems strange in a country where the government is "of the people, by the people, and for the people." Our democracy has subjected us to the condition of the old Roman clients. We do not have leaders in politics, but users; men who use us for their own advantage.

—China and Japan are turning the tables upon us bravely. We have been sending missionaries to them for two hundred years and more, and now a young disciple of Buddha comes among us to criticise our religion and to tell us that the moral principles and the conduct of Christians are of a lower standard than those taught by Confucius; and a Japanese publicist criticises our politics in our leading review, and tells us that we are the slowest people on the face of the earth, and are tied hand and foot by our paper constitutions. There will probably not be many converts to Buddhism; and as probably the Constitution of the United States will not be set aside as a worthless piece of paper in this generation. None the less, however, are these return-missionary efforts of our extremely Oriental friends very significant signs of the times. They show two things: first, the little real effect which, after all, the West has produced upon the East; and last, the freedom of thought and discussion which is now pervading the world. It is safe to say that our Chinese and Japanese critics will be listened to with respect; and that not in a mere spirit of tolerance and politeness. The world has changed its position greatly in such respects within the last thirty or fifty years. The petition in the English prayer-book in favor of "Jews, Turks, heretics, and infidels," which found its counterpart in the extemporaneous prayers of other orthodox religious sects, is beginning to sound rather antiquated. The idea of holding up Dr. Gottheil, for instance, as a proper subject for especial prayer, is to most sensible people rather ridiculous, however good Christians they may be. Investigation has found the principles of a high morality in other religious creeds than those of Western Europe and America; and charity, that chiefest of Christian virtues, has taught us to judge others, if we judge them at all, by standards of general application with allowance for peculiar conditions. We have discovered that political sagacity was not confined to the founders of the political systems of modern Europe. It is found that the human mind is much the same under like conditions in all countries and in all times; and we are approaching gradually to Tennyson's "parliament of man" and "federation of the world."

—A sadder story has not been told for a long while than that of the mother and daughter who were excluded from the Shaker settlement at Whitewater, where they had been for fourteen years, and after leaving which, and seeking in vain the means of livelihood, they, in despair, took poison, and died in each other's arms. The sadness is not so much in their death; for to that they were at any time liable; and loving each other fondly, as they manifestly did, in their voluntary death they were not divided. But the mother was at first driven to the Shaker community fourteen years ago, with her little girl, because she had been deserted by the father of her child, to whom she had not been married. She had weakly yielded to the impulse of nature without fortifying herself by a legal claim upon the father of her child, and the world, instead of treating her tenderly and helping her, turned its back upon her and told her that she and the child that she had borne were fit only to starve or to live in a county poor house. After fourteen years of the cold, colorless, and unnatural life of the Shakers, the daughter showed that she was not an abstraction or a forked radish, and behaved like a woman, perhaps not a prudent one, to the young men of the community. She was told that such behavior was only fit for the world's people, and that she and her daughter must go. But the world's people had driven out the mother herself upon something such grounds years before; and now when she came back she was met by the same stony front. Let us not be misunderstood; we are not justifying or even palliating the mother's conduct. We pass that point by without consideration. But the point remains that for an error, which, however great, was in the course of nature, the mother became an outcast, and that for indiscretion, also in the course of nature, on the daughter's part, both afterward were turned away from the Shaker community; and then they found the world so hard, and life in it so bitter, that, although one was still in the prime of life and the other in its early morning, they chose rather death together. They might have been base and unnatural, hard-hearted, malicious, slanderous, revengeful, covetous, grasping, utterly regardless of the happiness and, within the law, of the rights of others, the mother might not have loved her child, the child might not have loved her mother, and yet the world would not have driven them to the Shakers and the Shakers would not have driven them out again into the world to die. It is an old story, we do not hesitate to say an old wrong, of which every man and woman with an unperverted heart admits the cruelty in the abstract, but of which the collective world is always ready to be guilty. A woman who "gets a husband," no matter by what base arts or design, is "received"; a woman who gives the world a child otherwise than according to law is cast out, often by those who are not worthy to touch the hem of her garment. It is not necessary to justify women who err in this way before condemning the pharisaic righteousness which stones them into despair. "Neither do I condemn thee. Go and sin no more."

—Compare the wrong done in such a case with the conduct of a "respectable" young woman whose sudden disappearance from her home near Waterford, New York, caused much excitement. She reappeared after a week's absence, and accused three young men of the place of abducting her. They were rather wild fellows, and they were arrested. But upon investigation the story was found to be a pure fabrication. The girl had gone suddenly off to visit some of her relatives; and to gratify some feeling, whatever it might have been, she trumped up this accusation. It is impossible to conceive a fouler, baser act. And yet she will not be an outcast; she is "respectable"; no one will venture to call her a "bad girl." But suppose that He who said "neither do I condemn thee" were to decide between the relative fitness of the two for a place in His kingdom—is there any doubt in whose favor He would speak? The law cannot decide as He would decide; and the world is right in insisting upon the chastity of woman; but is the world right in regarding chastity as the only female virtue, or at least in regarding a lapse from continence as the only wrong which should exclude woman from the pale of decent society, and deprive her of a right to earn her living among other women? Is it right in asking only one question in regard to a woman's conduct and in "receiving" a married woman, merely because she is married, although she may make her home a little hell for her husband and her children? We are not advocating looseness upon the former point, but only comparing the world's treatment of natural error with its treatment of essential and malicious wrong-doing. If the one should be condemned—and it should be—what should be done in case of the other? Motive gives every act its true character; and if we teach women that a life filled with acts the motives of which are mean and malicious may be "respectable," are we not subjecting them to a daily discipline of moral degradation?

—And with it all there is such a foolish, deplorable, ruinous neglect of the proper instruction of young women. They are taught heaps of things that are of no possible use to them, and they are not taught those which concern them most nearly. Here is this miserable "Throop-Price" affair, as it is called, in which a young lady belonging to a family of some culture and social position is actually taken before a clergyman and half married before she knows it; but suspecting that something is wrong, and being assured by the clergyman that the ceremony he is performing solemnizes a real, binding marriage, she flies off, but is immediately induced to go before the Mayor, and is there married out of hand when she meant to do no such thing. It seems incredible; but it is actually true. We make, as we should do, an awful fuss about marriage, and a good marriage is, as it should be, the desire of a young woman's heart, and yet in regard to all the essentials of marriage as well as the duties and personal relations of married life, we leave them in ignorance. There would seem to be but two ways about this matter: one, the French way of keeping young girls in seclusion and absolute ignorance, and then marrying them off as a sort of business transaction—an arrangement that does not suit our social life, and which, it must be confessed, does not tend to produce the best state of morals in France; the other to give young girls reasonable liberty, under the general supervision of their parents and family, but in this case to arm them with knowledge, to let them know what marriage is legally, ceremonially, socially, and physiologically. This is a safe way, and the only safe one. Let this be done, and then if a girl "goes wrong" in any way, it is merely one of those unavoidable misfortunes which some of us have to encounter.

—Was there ever anything so amazing as this blue-glass craze that has taken possession of about two-thirds of those who are included in the term "everybody"? It would seem as if there were no limit to man's credulity, particularly upon those subjects which concern him most nearly, religion and the preservation of bodily health. In both he is ready to listen to any plausible person who will tell him to "do some great thing." Tell him that he must live a life morally pure and physically clean and sober, that he must not sin against his own consciousness of right, and that he must wash himself and eat simple, wholesome food, conform himself to the indications of his physical structure, and he will assent in a careless way, and immediately violate every rule of sound morals and physiology. But tell him that he must make a pilgrimage to Rome, or that he must lift six or seven hundred pounds daily, swallow pills and bitters, or live in a blue conservatory, and he will prick up his long ears, and do it if he can. What wonder that quacks all make money, and that the "patent medicine interest" should have a representative in Congress! But quacks and patent medicines usually must have the benefit of a few years of copious advertising before they effect their purpose; whereas blue glass was written into popular favor with the dash of a pen. It trebled in price in less than so many weeks. The notion that light should be filtered of every ray but the blue one to produce the best effect upon the human body and brain is certainly one of the most fantastic that has been broached since the days of the medical mountebanks. The best use to which this glass can be put is to the making of hot-beds. Let our early lettuce and pease by all means be brought forward under sashes glazed in blue. What cauliflowers we shall have, and what cabbages! At present the crop of cabbage heads, to be sure, promises to be very large through the intervention of blue glass; but much the greater number of them appear to be growing upon human shoulders.

—Science, or self-styled science, however, insists on playing its tricks with colors as with other matter—if color be matter. There is now a budding theory that the eye is and always has been in a state of development, and that we are yet to discover new colors of which we have at present no idea. In support of this it is urged that in early literature we find only the strong primary colors mentioned—red, blue, black; black, however, being the absence of true color. It is supposed that the other colors were not seen; and in support of this it is urged that Aristotle assigns only four colors to the rainbow. But surely this is scientific trifling. It is natural that early writers upon any subject should notice only the strongest and most salient points connected with it. Its finer gradations become the subject of subsequent discussion. Particularly might this be expected to be the case in the ruder states of society. It is not that the senses cannot perceive; for the savage senses are very keen, as is well known, but that language, perhaps even the mind, does not discriminate. It is content with broad and marked distinctions. So with regard to the eye and color. We may be very sure that a perfect eye sees, and has always seen, all possible color. But unless led thereto by science or art, or love of beauty in dress or ornamentation, the observer is content with noticing the strong tints, red, blue, yellow, black, white—and green also, which is so widely spread over nature. But as to a new color, that is quite impossible, unless some new gradation or combination of color may have a new name given to it. For in the spectrum we have a perfect gradation of colors, all that are in the ray; and after we pass the primaries, the others are but combinations and gradations. To get a new color we must wait for a new eye and a new sun.

—Where will the desire for championship not lead some one of us, and where will it end? We have champion walkers and skaters, champion boot-blacks and bill-posters; and out at the West the other day a lad employed in a newspaper office to wrap papers for the mails announced himself as the champion paper-wrapper, and challenged anybody to wrap with him—the most in so many hours. The last champion performance is that of a "professor of dancing" (Anglèce, a dancing master), who waltzed for five consecutive hours. It was an occasion. We are told how, after waltzing some half-a-dozen persons, male and female, out of breath, the "intrepid professor" kept on; how he changed partners without stopping his regular steps; how he drank a glass of wine now and then, while stepping in time to the music; and how, when after waltzing steadily for four hours and a half, he showed some signs of faltering, slices of lemon were put into his mouth, ten minutes after swallowing which "the professor revived." Then he became dizzy, and peppermint lozenges were given him. On he went, and in the last five minutes of his stint showed his pluck by "putting in fancy steps"; and his wife, who was now his partner—a sort of nursing partner, it would seem—occasionally whispered "nods of encouragement," a performance which beats the professor's all hollow. "Nods and becks and wreathed smiles" are very natural and very charming on appropriate occasions; but whispered nods are something quite inconceivable. The professor held out, and at half-past twelve "a grand huzza rang out." Is not this rather a pitiful spectacle? If a man dances, let him dance well. If to teach dancing is his vocation, let him get, and let him prize, a reputation for teaching it well. That is reasonable and respectable. But that a man should spend five whole consecutive hours, nearly a quarter of a day, in dancing for the mere sake of showing that he could keep it up and dance ever so many people down, is rather a sad exhibition of smallness. All these exhibitions spring, not from the desire to do well, which is always and in all things honorable, but from that of doing something that other people cannot do, which is not very admirable. Some other "professor," not to be bluffed, will now challenge this professor; and we shall have a dance for the championship. Then some other professor in Europe will be fired with ambition, and we shall have a grand International Dancing Contest for the Championship of the World. Well, it will be a little better, but not much, than the eating and drinking matches which sometimes take place in England, in which two half-beastly creatures gorge and guzzle in a contest wherein the victor would probably be beaten by almost any four-legged swine. Emulation is a spur to exertion the moral excellence of which is at least questionable; and when it leads to dancing five hours on a stretch or eating five pounds of bacon at a sitting, we see a little what its essence is.

—The curiosities of advertising come out strongly at the far West. Here is the "Denver Rocky Mountain News" all ablaze with displayed announcements, some of which are of an extraordinary and whimsical character. One man cries out in enormous type, "Deadwood on getting rich if you only save your money; no need of going to the Black Hills if you can buy Groceries at these figures"; another exclaims in very big black letters, "Store your Stoves! and avoid trouble, dirt, rust, hard work, and profanity"—the latter a piece of advice very pertinent, it would seem, to the region; another insinuates in a sort of colossal pica that although "Bragg and Stick'em may have a larger stock of men's furnishing goods than all the other houses in the United States put together," the right place to get things cheap and elegant is his establishment (who are the loudly advertising rivals that he pillories as Bragg and Stick'em does not appear); another firm of traders announce themselves as the "Chicago Square-Dealing House"; another, a jeweller, informs the Western world that in consequence of the "great failure of the Milton Gold jewelry company in London, their entire stock has been consigned to us to raise money as soon as possible"—the idea of a consignment from London to Denver does not seem to strike the Western mind as it does us who are somewhat nearer London; two undertakers announce their business by enormous prints of black-plumed hearses; and the paper itself publishes a "black list" of debts for sale, ingeniously adding that a dollar a week will be credited to the debtors during the publication; one advertisement is headed, "Drunkard, Stop!" an appeal which seems quite in place; for the most important and interesting announcement of all, headed, "Don't you forget it!" is that a certain man has "the best stock of Straight Kentucky Sour-mash Bourbon and Rye Whiskey in the Far West." He may be sure that the Denver people will not forget that.


 1"Biographie de Alfred de Musset: sa Vie et ses Œuvres."Par Paul de Musset. Paris: Charpentier.

 2"Alfred de Musset." Von Paul Lindau. Berlin: Hofmann.

 3Reports to the Senate in 1825, 1835, and 1844, contain able discussions of "Executive Patronage."

 4For an able setting forth of the claims of Orlandus Lassus, see Frederic Louis Ritter's excellent "History of Music," First Series, published by Oliver Ditson & Co.

 5It is not necessary that I should give authority for this to any competent person who is acquainted with the music of the ancient composers; but whoever chooses to do so may find the subject fully discussed in Helmholtz's great work, passim.

 6Amphora cepit Institui, currente rota cur urceus exit?—Hor. Ad Pisones.

 7No. 6, Breitkopf and Härtel.

 8"Shakespeare, from an American Point of View: Including an Inquiry as to his Religious Faith and his Knowledge of Law. With the Baconian Theory Considered." By George Wilkes. 8vo, pp. 471. New York: D. Appleton & Co.

 9"An Analysis of Religious Belief." By Viscount Amberly. 8vo, pp. 745. New York: D. M. Bennett.

 10"The Spirit of the New Faith. A Series of Sermons." By Octavius Brooks Frothingham. 16mo, pp. 272. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.

 11"United States Geological and Geographical Survey of the Territories." F. V. Hayden, United States Geologist in charge. Annual Report, 1877. Colorado and adjacent Territories. Government Printing Office.

 12The Same. Catalogue of Publications. Second edition, Revised to December 31, 1876.

 13The Same. Report on Invertebrate Palæontology. F. B. Meek.

 14The Same. Monograph of the Geometrid Moths or Phalænidæ. By A. S. Packard, Jr., M.D.

 15"Report of a Reconnaissance to the Yellowstone National Park in the Summer of 1875." By William Ludlow, Captain of Engineers. War Department, Washington.

 16"Essays on Political Economy." By Frederick Bastiat. Translation revised by David A. Wells. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.

 17"The Jukes. A Study In Crime, Pauperism, Disease, and Heredity." By R. L. Dugdale. With an Introduction by Elisha Harris, M.D. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.

 18"Seeking the Golden Fleece. A Record of Pioneer Life in California." By J. D. B. Stillman. A. Roman & Co.

 19"Sir Roger de Coverly: Consisting of the Papers Relating to Sir Roger, which were Originally Published in the 'Spectator.'" With an Introductory Essay by John Habberton. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. $1.25.

 20"The New Church: Its Nature and Whereabout. Being a Critical Examination of the Popular Theory, with some Illustrations of its Tendency and Legitimate Fruits." By B. F. Barrett. 16mo, pp. 213. Philadelphia: Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger.

 21"Volume Third The Swedenborg Library." Edited by B. F. Barrett. Freedom, Rationality, and Catholicity. From the Writings of Emanuel Swendenborg. Philadelphia: Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger.

 22"How to Teach according to Temperament and Mental Development; or, Phrenology in the School Room and the Family." By Nelson Sizer. 16mo, pp. 331. New York: Wells & Co.

 23"King Saul: A Tragedy." By Byron A. Brooks. 16mo, pp. 144. New York: Nelson & Phillips.

 24Published by Osgood & Company.

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