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diff --git a/old/52887-h/52887-h.htm b/old/52887-h/52887-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index ab5c991..0000000 --- a/old/52887-h/52887-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,18400 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - The Project Gutenberg eBook of Eclectic Magazine, by William Westall. - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - -h1 -{ - margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em; - text-align: center; - font-size: x-large; - font-weight: normal; - line-height: 1.6; -} - - h2,h3{ - text-align: center; - clear: both; - } - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} - -p -{ - margin-top: .75em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .75em; -} -p.toc {font-size: small; margin-left: 5em;} -p.aut {font-size: small; text-align: center;} - - -hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} - -table { - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; -} - - -.blockquote { - margin-left: 5%; - margin-right: 10%; -} - - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.right {text-align: right;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.xs {font-size: x-small;} - - -/* Images */ -.figcenter {margin: 1em auto; text-align: center;} - - -/* Footnotes */ -.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} - -.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} - -.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} - -.fnanchor { - vertical-align: super; - font-size: .8em; - text-decoration: none; - white-space: nowrap -} - -/* Poetry */ -.poetry-container - { - text-align: center; - margin: -1em 0; - } - -.poetry - { - display: inline-block; - text-align: left; - } - -.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} - -.poetry .verse - { - text-indent: -3em; - padding-left: 3em; - } - -.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2em;} -.poetry .indent4 {text-indent: -1em;} -.poetry .indent6 {text-indent: 0em;} -.poetry .indent10 {text-indent: 2em;} - - -@media handheld -{ - .poetry - { - display: block; - margin-left: 1em; - } -} - -/* Transcriber's notes */ -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em;} - - </style> - </head> -<body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, -Science, and Art, March 1885, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, March 1885 - -Author: Various - -Release Date: August 23, 2016 [EBook #52887] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECLECTIC MAGAZINE--MARCH 1885 *** - - - - -Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Les Galloway and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - -</pre> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - -<div class="transnote"> -<p>Transcribers note: table of contents added by the transcriber.</p> -</div> - -<p class="toc"> -<a href="#FROM_SIBERIA_TO_SWITZERLAND">FROM SIBERIA TO SWITZERLAND.</a><br /> -<a href="#COLERIDGE_AS_A_SPIRITUAL_THINKER">COLERIDGE AS A SPIRITUAL THINKER.</a><br /> -<a href="#THE_PORTRAIT">THE PORTRAIT.</a><br /> -<a href="#DELLA_CRUSCA_AND_ANNA_MATILDA">DELLA CRUSCA AND ANNA MATILDA:</a><br /> -<a href="#THE_SAVAGE">THE SAVAGE.</a><br /> -<a href="#LE_BONHOMME_CORNEILLE">LE BONHOMME CORNEILLE.</a><br /> -<a href="#CHARLES_DICKENS_AT_HOME">CHARLES DICKENS AT HOME.</a><br /> -<a href="#THE_SUMMER_PALACE_PEKING">THE SUMMER PALACE, PEKING.</a><br /> -<a href="#THE_CAMORRA">THE CAMORRA.</a><br /> -<a href="#THE_DECAY_OF_IRISH_HUMOR">THE DECAY OF IRISH HUMOR.</a><br /> -<a href="#PRINCE_BISMARCKS_CHARACTER">PRINCE BISMARCK'S CHARACTER.</a><br /> -<a href="#A_FEW_NOTES_ON_PERSIAN_ART">A FEW NOTES ON PERSIAN ART.</a><br /> -<a href="#HOW_INSECTS_BREATHE">HOW INSECTS BREATHE.</a><br /> -<a href="#PIERRES_MOTTO">PIERRE'S MOTTO:</a><br /> -<a href="#BEHIND_THE_SCENES">BEHIND THE SCENES.</a><br /> -<a href="#GO_TO_THE_ANT">GO TO THE ANT.</a><br /> -<a href="#LITERARY_NOTICES">LITERARY NOTICES.</a><br /> -<a href="#FOREIGN_LITERARY_NOTES">FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES.</a><br /> -<a href="#MISCELLANY">MISCELLANY.</a><br /> -</p> -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/masthead.jpg" alt="Mastehead" /> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h1> -Eclectic Magazine<br /> - -<span class="xs">OF</span><br /> - -<small>FOREIGN LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART</small>.</h1> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/001.jpg" alt="――――――" /> -</div> -<div class="center"> -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<col width="25%" /><col width="50%" /><col width="25%" /> -<tr> - <td align="center"><small>New Series.<br />Vol. XLI., No. 3.</small></td> - <td align="center">MARCH, 1885.</td> - <td align="center"><small>Old Series complete<br />in 63 vols.</small></td> -</tr> -</table></div> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/001.jpg" alt="――――――" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<h2><a name="FROM_SIBERIA_TO_SWITZERLAND" id="FROM_SIBERIA_TO_SWITZERLAND">FROM SIBERIA TO SWITZERLAND.</a><br /> - -<small><span class="smcap">The Story of an Escape.</span></small></h2> - -<p class="aut">BY WILLIAM WESTALL.</p> - - -<p>Escapes of political and other convicts -from Western Siberia are more frequent -than is generally supposed, but -from Eastern Siberia, though often attempted, -they seldom succeed. Save -for convicts under sentence of penal -servitude, and actually imprisoned, it is -easy to elude the vigilance of the police -and get away from a convict village or -settlement, but it is almost impossible to -get out of the country. The immense -distances to be traversed, the terrible -climate, lack of money, the absolute -necessity of keeping to the high roads, -prove, except in very few instances, insuperable -obstacles to final success. In -order to be really free, moreover, it is -imperative for a fugitive not alone to -pass the frontier of European Russia, -but to reach some country where he runs -no risk of falling into the clutches of the -imperial police. Even in Germany he -is liable to be recaptured, and is really -safe only in England, France, or Switzerland. -Hence, to make good a flight -from Eastern Siberia requires a conjuncture -of so many favorable and nearly -impossible circumstances as to render a -complete escape a rare and remarkable -event. But the incentives to escape are -as great as the obstacles to success. No -life can be more horrible than that of a -political exile in the far east or far north -of Siberia. Even at Irkoutsk the mean -temperature is fifty degrees below the -freezing-point of Réaumur; for many -months of the year the sun in some parts -of the country shines but two or three -hours in the twenty-four, and for days -together darkness covers the face of the -land. A man untrained to manual -labor, or unacquainted with the arts of -trapping and killing wild animals and -collecting peltry, turned adrift in the remoter -parts of Siberia, runs the risk of -perishing of hunger and cold. A Russian -refugee, now at Geneva, tells that, -during his sojourn in Eastern Siberia, he -spent the greater part of the long winter -in bed, rising only to swallow some -rancid oil, the sole food he could obtain. -To escape from such a life as this -a man will risk almost anything. Even -incarceration in a central prison, or the -penal servitude of the mines, can hardly -be more terrible. The trouble is, that -the way to freedom lies through Western -Siberia and Russia in Europe. The -road south is barred by the wild tribes -that haunt the frontiers of Mongolia and -Manchuria, who either kill or give up to -the Russians all the fugitives that fall -into their hands.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, the escape of a -prisoner or of a convict under sentence -of penal servitude is far more difficult -than the flight of an involuntary exile; -the latter may leave when he will, the -former must either break out of prison -or evade his guardians, and being soon -missed he runs great risk of being -quickly recaptured. How, in one instance -at least, by boldness, address, -presence of mind, and good luck, the -difficulties were overcome, the following -narrative, related, as nearly as possible, -in Debagorio Mokrievitch's own words, -will show. Other fugitives, for instance -Nicolas Lopatin, a gentleman now living -in Geneva, who escaped from Vercholensk -in 1881, may have encountered -great hardships, but, being exiles at -large, they were neither so soon missed -nor so quickly pursued. Debagorio was -under sentence of penal servitude, and -the flight from Siberia of a man condemned -to penal servitude is almost unexampled. -Even rarer than an escape -is the true account of one, related by the -fugitive himself. Imaginary accounts -exist in plenty, but, so far as I am aware, -no authentic personal narrative of an -escape from Eastern Siberia—at any rate -in English or French—has ever before -been given to the world.</p> - -<p>I first heard of Mokrievitch in May, -1881, a few days after his arrival in -Geneva, and through the kindness of -Prince Krapotkine obtained (and communicated -to a London newspaper) a -brief sketch of his fellow-exile's adventures; -but for certain reasons, that exist -no longer, it was not considered expedient -to publish the full and complete -account which the reader will find in the -following pages.</p> - -<p class="right"> -<span class="smcap">William Westall.</span> -</p> - - -<h3><span class="smcap">The Arrest.</span></h3> - -<p>On the evening of February 11, 1879, -several friends of the revolutionary -cause, of whom I was one, met at -Yvitchevitche's lodgings, in the house -Kossarovsky, Yleanski Street, Kieff, the -town where I was then living. After a -short conversation, Anton, myself, and -several others left the house with the intention -of passing the rest of the evening -with our friend, Madame Babitchev. -The inevitable samovar was bubbling on -the table, our hospitable hostess gave -us a warm welcome, cigarettes were -lighted, conversation was joined, and an -hour or more passed very pleasantly.</p> - -<p>Anton was the first to leave, and he -could hardly have reached the street -when we were startled by a loud report -like the firing of a pistol. We stared at -each other in consternation, and -Strogov, running into the ante-room, -looked through the window and listened -at the door, in order to find out what -had happened. In a few minutes he -came back with satisfactory tidings. -Nothing unusual seemed to be stirring -in the street; and he attributed the -report we had heard to the banging of a -door in a neighboring café. So we resumed -our conversation and our tea-drinking -with quiet minds. But five -minutes later we were again disturbed; -this time by sounds the character of -which there was no mistaking. The -trampling of heavy feet in the vestibule, -hurried exclamations, words of command, -and the rattling of arms, told us -only too well with whom we had to do.</p> - -<p>The police were upon us.</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding our desire to resist, -we knew that we should be compelled to -yield without a blow. There was not a -weapon amongst us. A few seconds -were passed in anxious thought. Then -the double-winged doors were thrown -violently open, and we saw that the -ante-room was occupied by a detachment -of soldiers, with bayonets lowered -and ready to charge. From the right -flank came the words, loud and clear: -“Will you surrender, gentlemen? I -am the officer in command of the detachment.”</p> - -<p>I looked round and recognized in the -officer with the gendarme uniform and -drawn sword, Soudeikin in person, then -a subaltern in the Kieff gendarmerie, -later the famous chief of the political -police of the capital.</p> - -<p>Despite the imposing military array, -the haughty bearing of the officer, the -glittering bayonets and stern looks of the -soldiers, and the unpleasant sense of -having fallen into their toils, the whole -affair seemed to me just a little amusing, -and I could not help smiling, and saying, -in answer to Soudeikin's summons, -“Are we then a fortress, Mr. Officer, -that you call upon us to surrender?”</p> - -<p>“No; but your comrades....” -the rest of the sentence, owing to the -din, I did not catch.</p> - -<p>“What comrades?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“You will soon see,” replied -Soudeikin.</p> - -<p>Then he ordered his men to search us, -after which we were to be taken to the -police office.</p> - -<p>The searching over, we were surrounded -by thirty or forty soldiers, with -arms at the trail, and conducted to the -Libed police station. Even before we -reached our destination we could see -that something unusual had happened. -The building was lighted up, and there -was an excited crowd about the door. -After mounting the staircase we were led -into the waiting-room. It was filled -with armed men. Pushing my way with -some difficulty through the press, I saw -on the other side of the room several of -our friends. But, my God, what a state -they were in! Posen and Steblin -Kamensky were bound hand and foot; -the cords so tightly drawn that their elbows, -forced behind their backs, actually -touched. Close to them were -Mesdames Arnfeld, Sarandovitch, and -Patalizina. It was evident that something -extraordinary had befallen in the -house of Kossarovsky, shortly after we -left. I could not, however, ask our -friends any questions, for that would -have been taken as proof that we were -acquainted. Yet, from a few words -dropped here and there, I soon learnt -what had come to pass. They had resisted -the police, a gendarme had been -killed, and all whom we had left at the -meeting arrested.</p> - -<p>I had hardly made this discovery -when a disturbance was heard in the -next room—trampling of feet, loud exclamations, -and voices in contention, -one of which I seemed to know. The -next moment a man burst into the reception-room, -literally dragging behind -him two gendarmes, who tried in vain -to stop him. His dishevelled hair, pale -face, and flaming eyes, showed that he -had been engaged in a struggle beyond -his strength.</p> - -<p>In a few minutes he was garotted and -forced into a seat near us.</p> - -<p>“Separate the prisoners one from -another!” cried Colonel Novitzki.</p> - -<p>On this each of us was immediately -surrounded by four soldiers.</p> - -<p>“If they resist, use your bayonets!” -said the colonel.</p> - -<p>After a short interval we were called -one after another into the next room. I -was called the last. On responding to -the summons I found myself in the -presence of several gendarmes and -officers of police, by whom I was -searched a second time.</p> - -<p>“Have the goodness to state your -name,” said Colonel Novitzki, after the -operation was completed.</p> - -<p>“I would rather not,” I answered.</p> - -<p>“In that case I shall tell you who you -are.”</p> - -<p>“You will do me a great pleasure,” I -replied.</p> - -<p>“You are called Debagorio Mokrievitch,” -said the colonel.</p> - -<p>“Yes, that is your name,” put in -Soudeikin.</p> - -<p>“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, -colonel,” I answered, giving -the military salute.</p> - -<p>It would have been useless to deny my -identity. My mother, my brother, and -my sister were living at Kieff, and I did -not want to have them compelled to -confront the police and ordered to -recognize me.</p> - - -<h3><span class="smcap">The Sentence.</span></h3> - -<p>We were lodged in the principal prison -of Kieff. On April 20, we received -copies of the indictment, drawn up by -Strelnikoff, prosecuting advocate to the -Military Tribunal (he was afterwards -killed at Odessa). We were, in all, fourteen -prisoners, accused of sedition, of -belonging to secret political societies, -and of resisting the police. In order to -give greater publicity to the trial, we resolved -to have ourselves defended by -counsel from St. Petersburg and put forward -a request to this effect. But after -some delay we were informed that if we -wanted advocates, we must choose them -from among the candidates for judgeships -attached to the tribunal of Kieff, -and therefore dependent for promotion -on the functionary by whom the prosecution -was to be conducted. Deeming -this a practical denial of justice, we determined -to take no active part whatever -in the proceedings.</p> - -<p>At six o'clock on the morning of -April 20, we were taken before the -tribunal. Eight of our party were men, -six women. The first thing that struck -me was the strength of the escort—more -than a hundred Cossacks, besides gendarmes -and policemen. Officers were -running from group to group, giving -orders and making arrangements, as if -they were preparing for a general action. -The women were led off first, after which -we men were placed in a large barred -carriage, so spacious indeed that we -could all seat ourselves comfortably.</p> - -<p>Then the procession moved off. At -its head rode Gubernet, the chief of the -police. After him came the captain of -the gendarmerie, Rudov, an old schoolfellow -of mine. Our carriage was surrounded -by Cossacks, the rear-rank men -carrying loaded carbines. All the horses -were put to the gallop, and the police, -who feared a manifestation in our favor, -had cleared the streets of spectators, and -ordered a complete suspension of traffic. -Not a figure without uniform was to be -seen, and strong bodies of troops occupied -every street corner.</p> - -<p>I need not describe the trial—if trial -it can be called: it lasted four days, and -ended in the condemnation of three of -our number to death; the rest were -sentenced to various terms of imprisonment. -My sentence was fourteen years -and ten months' penal servitude.</p> - -<p>We were led back to prison with precisely -the same precautions as had been -observed when we were taken before the -tribunal. The people were not allowed -by their presence in the street to show -even silent sympathy, either with us, or -with the cause for which we suffered and -so many had perished.</p> - -<p>After the verdict and the sentence life -became a little easier for us. Instead of -being compelled to take exercise one by -one, we were now allowed to meet and -walk about freely in the prison yard. -The police had an object in granting us -this indulgence. Before the trial several -attempts had been made to take our -photographs; but this we had resolutely -refused to allow. For those who cherish -hopes of regaining their liberty, the -possession of their likeness by the police -is strongly to be deprecated. We were -now informed by the authorities of the -gaol that unless we complied with their -wishes in this matter our meetings and -our walks would be stopped. We enjoyed -our social intercourse immensely. -It was an unspeakable comfort to us. -Three of our little company were under -sentence of death, the fate of three -others trembled in the balance, and -would be made known only at the foot -of the scaffold. It was not possible that -we could long remain together, and we -offered to comply with the wish of our -gaolers on condition that we should not -be separated until the last. This condition -being accepted, our photographs -were taken.</p> - -<p>The quarters of several of us were in -an upper story of the prison, and from -our grated windows we could watch the -construction of the gallows. The place -of execution was a plain about two-thirds -of a mile from the prison gates. -Those doomed to death, being on a lower -story, did not witness these ghastly -preparations, and none of us, of course, -gave them a hint of what was going on.</p> - -<p>At length, and only too swiftly, came -the 13th of May. We had been told -nothing, but from the completion of the -gallows, the behavior of the warders, -and from other signs, we thought that -the executions were fixed for the following -day. The condemned thought -so themselves. Although we did our -utmost to keep outwardly calm, the -farewells that evening were unspeakably -sad. Most touching and agonizing of -all was the parting of those who were to -die on the morrow with those who expected -to follow them a little later on -to the scaffold and the grave. Two -months afterwards Beltchomsky and -Anisim Fedorow were hanged on the -same gallows.</p> - -<p>Five thousand soldiers and gendarmes -escorted our doomed friends to the place -of execution. On previous occasions -the authorities had thought it well to do -their hanging early in the morning, while -people slept. This time they did it with -pomp, circumstance and parade. The -cavalcade of death did not leave the -prison gates until nearly noon; traffic -was suspended, but the streets were -crowded with spectators, and when the -bodies of our comrades swung in the -air, the military band struck up a lively -tune, as if they were rejoicing over -some great victory.</p> - - -<h3><span class="smcap">Sent to Siberia.</span></h3> - -<p>From the time of the execution to the -date of our departure for Siberia nothing -noteworthy came to pass. All sorts of -rumors were current touching our destination -and our fate. Every day -brought a new conjecture or a fresh -story. It was said that we were to be -confined in one of the dreaded central -prisons—that we were to be immured in -the casemates of St. Peter and St. Paul—that -we were to be sent to Eastern -Siberia, to Western Siberia—to the -island of Sakhalin—that we were not to -be sent anywhere, but to stay where we -were.</p> - -<p>At length, on May 30, the question -was settled. Ten prisoners, of whom I -made one, were summoned to the office, -and told that we were forthwith to take -our departure—whither, our custodians -refused to say. The next proceeding -was to put two of our friends, who did -not belong to the privileged order, in -irons and shave their heads. We -others, being nobles, were to be spared -this indignity until we reached our -destination. For the present we were -required only to don the ordinary convict -costume, consisting of a long gray -capote, marked on the back with a -yellow ace for those sentenced to simple -transportation, and with two aces for -those condemned to penal servitude.</p> - -<p>“Will you not tell us whither we are -going?” asked one of our number of -General Gubernet, as we stepped into -the van.</p> - -<p>“To Eastern Siberia,” said the -General, who stood near the door.</p> - -<p>Then I knew my fate—fourteen years -hard labor—possibly in a region of almost -endless night, and as cold as the -Polar regions.</p> - -<p>The station of Koursk, the cities of -Mzensk, Moscow, and Nijni Novgorod -are passed in quick succession. At -Nijni Novgorod we leave the railway -and continue our journey, as far as -Perm, by water. It is only here that we -begin to realize that we are really on the -road to Siberia. We are transferred to -little three-horse carriages, with a soldier -in front and a gendarme by the side of -each prisoner. By leaning a little forward -it is possible to see the vast horizon -before us, and the forests and -mountains that stretch for unknown distances -on either side of the road. It is -difficult to describe the feelings of a captive -who for months, or it may be for -years, has been under bolt and bar, and -whose views have been limited to the -blank walls of a prison, when he once -more breathes the free air of heaven, and -beholds nature in all her grandeur and -her beauty. It is as if the liberty for -which his soul has never ceased to yearn -were opening to him her arms and bidding -him be free.</p> - -<p>The country through which we were -passing was thinly peopled, and buildings -and houses were few and far between. -The broad highway was bordered -in some places by brushwood, in -others by immense forests. All sorts of -fancies flitted through my brain. I -thought of home—of father, mother and -friends—of the cause, of the incidents of -my trial, and the dreary future that lay -before me: fourteen years' hard labor in -Eastern Siberia—a hell hopeless as any -conceived in the brain of Dante. And -then plans of escape surged through my -mind, each wilder and more fantastic -than its fellow.</p> - -<p>We travel night and day, always with -the same soldier and gendarme, though -not always with the same driver. On -one occasion we change horses at midnight, -and shortly afterwards I see that -my guards are overcome by sleep. -They nod and rouse themselves in turn; -their efforts to keep awake are laughable. -As for me, my thoughts hinder sleep, -but an idea occurs to me, and I nod too, -and, drawing myself into my corner, -I snore. The stratagem succeeds. A -few minutes later my gendarme is snoring -loud enough to waken the dead. -The soldier who sits before me embraces -his rifle with both hands and feet, and -sways to and fro with the motion of the -tarantass, now and then incoherently -muttering in a guttural voice. He is -deep in dreamland. I rise softly and -look out into the night. A million stars -are shining in the clear sky, and I can -see that we are passing through a thick -forest. A spring, a bound, and I could -be among those trees. Once there, my -guards can no more find me than the -wolf that steals through the covert, for I -am fleet of foot and eager for freedom. -But dressed in this convict costume, -how long should I be able to keep my -freedom? To regain Russia, I must -follow the highroad, and the first soldier -or gendarme I met would arrest me. -True, I might throw away my capote, -with its double ace, but I had no hat, -and a bare-headed man would invite -attention even more than one clad in the -costume of a felon. Worse still, I had -no arms. I could neither defend myself -against wild animals nor kill game; and -if I am compelled to take to the woods, -game may be the only food I shall be -able to procure.</p> - -<p>No; I must abandon the idea now, -and watch for a more favorable opportunity -hereafter. As I come reluctantly -to this conclusion I remember—it -seemed like an inspiration—that the -gendarme has a hat on his head and a -revolver by his side. Why not take -them? He is still fast asleep, snoring, -if possible, harder than ever. I shall -never have such another chance. I will -do it: two minutes more and then—freedom.</p> - -<p>I almost shout.</p> - -<p>Holding my breath, and trying to still -the beatings of my heart, I creep close -to the sleeping man, and lay my hand -gently on the hat. He makes no sign, -and the next moment the hat is under my -capote. Now the revolver! I lay hold -of the butt, and try to draw it from the -gendarme's belt. It does not come out -easily—I pull again—pull a second time, -and am preparing to pull a third time, -when the snoring suddenly ceases.</p> - -<p>Quick as thought, I shrink into my -corner, breathe deeply and pretend to -sleep. The gendarme rouses himself, -mutters, and passes his hand over his -head. Then he searches all about him, -and, evidently alarmed by the loss of his -hat, he sleeps no more.</p> - -<p>“Hallo, brother!” I say, “you seem -to have lost your hat.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid I have, sir,” he answers -in a puzzled voice, at the same time -scratching his head by way, probably, of -keeping it warm.</p> - -<p>“You see what it is to sleep on the -road, my friend! Suppose, now, I had -slipped out of the carriage! Nothing -would have been easier.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but you never thought of such -a thing, and I am sure you would not do -it, sir.”</p> - -<p>“But why?” I ask.</p> - -<p>“Because I have done you no harm, -and you do not want to get a poor fellow -into trouble! You know yourself how -severely gendarmes are dealt with who -let their prisoners escape.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, brother, here is your hat -which I found and hid—just to frighten -you a bit.”</p> - -<p>Just then we reached another station, -and the poor fellow as he put on his -head-gear thanked me quite pathetically, -as much for not running away as for -restoring his property.</p> - - -<h3><span class="smcap">The Convoy.</span></h3> - -<p>At Krasnovarski we were put in prison -again, and there remained several weeks, -awaiting further orders as to our disposal, -for, notwithstanding what we had -been told at Kieff, there appeared to be -some doubt touching the fate in store -for us. At length came the final instructions. -We were to march with -the chain-gang of common prisoners to -Irkoutsk. It was then that, as an expedient -for avoiding penal servitude and -eventually regaining my liberty, the idea -of effecting an exchange first occurred to -me. The device is one frequently practised -among the outlaws of Siberia. -This is the method of it:—Two prisoners -make a bargain, whereby one of -the contracting parties takes the name -and certificate and assumes the crime of -the other, and <i lang="la">vice versâ</i>. There is, in -fact, a complete change of identities, and -the one who gains by the exchange -settles the difference by a money payment. -The result is that the man condemned -to hard labor becomes a Siberian -settler, and the other takes his place at -the mines or in gaol. The bargain may -appear an unequal one, but a moneyless -man will sometimes do a great deal for -a small sum of ready cash—especially if -he has a passion for gambling or drink—and -there is always the possibility that, -when the deceit is discovered, the more -extreme penalty may not be enforced. -In the meantime, moreover, the supposed -political prisoner, who is generally of -noble birth, enjoys a consideration and -some material advantages which are denied -to the common malefactor.</p> - -<p>During the long tramp of the chain -gang these substitutions are effected -without much difficulty. The escort -being changed every two days, it is impossible -for the members of it, in so -short a time, to familiarize themselves -with the names and condition of the ten -or twelve score prisoners who compose -the convoy. They can do no more than -count heads, and when the officer in -command of the party has delivered to -his successor the same number of convicts, -in each category, which he received -from his predecessor, his task is -fully acquitted. Whether they are the -same persons he cannot undertake to -say, and is never asked.</p> - -<p>On August 20, or thereabouts—I am -not sure to a day—we were once more -<i lang="fr">en route</i>, this time on foot. From -Krasnovarski the distance is 700 English -miles, and the journey, it was reckoned, -would occupy about two months. -I had thus ample time to make the acquaintance -of my convict comrades and -carry out the substitution.</p> - -<p>We were now put under an altogether -different <i lang="fr">régime</i>. Hitherto we had not -been able to exchange a word with anybody. -I saw about me only my fellow -political convicts, and might speak, -when occasion required, to none but my -guards. Now we were allowed to communicate -freely with each other, and -with the rather mixed society of which -we formed a part. The gang consisted -of 170 persons of both sexes and of -every class and age; from the babe in -its mother's arms to the old man with -snow-white hair. Most of them were -peasants; yet several among us could -claim the privileges of nobility. But the -strength of the convoy diminished as -we went on, for Krasnovarski is within -the limits of Eastern Siberia, and -several prisoners were left as colonists at -the villages through which we passed.</p> - -<p>The escort consisted of an officer and -thirty soldiers, armed with old-fashioned -muskets. A detachment of three or -four marched at the head of the column. -The others marched at the side and were -supposed to form a military chain. But -it was so weak, relatively to its duties, as -to be almost worthless, the convoy being -increased to a portentous length by the -baggage-wagons and the families of the -prisoners who were following them into -exile. After the baggage-wagons came -two carriages occupied by gentlemen -malefactors of the nobility, and three in -which, when they were footsore, rode -the political prisoners.</p> - -<p>About six o'clock in the evening the -convoy generally reached the “half-stage,” -a building in which we pass the -night. After a march of two days, or -of a full day, we had a day's rest at -one of the buildings known as <i lang="fr">étapes</i>, or -stages. On these occasions the prisoners -are ranged in front of the building -and counted. If the count be right -the gates are opened, and with cries of -joy the weary wayfarers throw themselves -into the court. Then, pushing -and hustling, clanking their chains and -cursing like demons, they fight their way -into the house, struggling desperately -for the best places. The first comers -take possession of the benches; the -others lie where they can. When all are -inside the gates are closed, but the -doors are not barred until nightfall.</p> - -<p>The “stage” is a small wooden barrack—with -a large court, formed of palisades, -in the rear—divided into several -compartments, one of which is assigned -to the nobles of the convoy; -but like all the others it is far too little -for its destined purpose. The prisoners -are as closely packed as herrings in a -barrel. A few only can find places on -the benches. The others have to sleep -on the damp and dirty floor. Next to -the benches the most desirable spot is -under them, for there it is a little -cleaner and the sleepers are less likely -to be disturbed than on the open floor.</p> - -<p>The struggle for places over, the barrack-yard -becomes very lively. The -prisoners are preparing the evening -meal; some laying fires, others putting -a few scanty morsels of food into a pot—for -our fare is terribly meagre; others -bringing water and making tea. After -supper we are again counted, driven inside, -and left there for the night. No -one is allowed to go out for any purpose -whatever; but as a substitute for latrines -large wooden pails are placed in -the corridor. The presence of these -abominations among so many people in -ill-ventilated rooms renders the air unutterably -foul; its odor is something quite -peculiar, as all who have had occasion to -enter the prisoners' quarters at night, -or, still worse, early in the morning, -well know.</p> - -<p>In the same corridor, but at the other -end, is the <i lang="ru">maidan</i>, a sort of itinerant -shop, which serves at the same time as -a club and gambling saloon; for the -prisoners are much given to play. This -<i lang="ru">maidan</i> is an institution common to -every Siberian convoy and gaol. The -<i lang="ru">markitant</i>, or keeper of it, is always a -prisoner. The post, which is much -coveted and very profitable, is sold to -the highest bidder, and the proceeds of -the sale, often considerable, are added -to the common hoard. For one of the -first proceedings of the prisoners is to -form themselves into a society, which is -a faithful reproduction of the rural <i lang="ru">mir</i>. -They elect a <i lang="ru">starosta</i>, who also acts as -general cashier, and appoint him an assistant. -The authorities, on their part, -always recognise this system of self-government, -and acknowledge the -authority of the <i lang="ru">starosta</i>. All orders are -communicated through him, and he -makes all payments on behalf of the -community. He acts, in short, as -general intermediary between the prisoners -and their custodians—bribes, when -it is necessary, the agents of justice, and -pays a regular tribute to the executioner, -in consideration whereof that official is -good enough, often at the risk of his -own back, to wield his whip with all -possible consideration for the feelings -of his victim.</p> - -<p>The scene in the <i lang="ru">markitant's</i> den on a -rest day was very queer, and, well -painted, would make a striking picture: -the players round the capote-covered -table, as excited and as intent over their -game as if they were playing for thousands -of roubles instead of fractions of -kopecs—the shouting and gesticulating -onlookers, following with keenest interest -the varying fortunes of the game—a -ruined gambler bargaining with the -<i lang="ru">markitant</i> for an advance on a coat, a -pair of shoes, or an old watch—a convict -asleep on the floor—another mending -a rent in his clothes—a third hammering -at his irons. He is widening -the rings that shackle his legs, in order -that he may slip them off when he is on -the road—walking in irons not being -precisely an amusement. The sentries -and the officers cannot fail to hear the -clang of the hammer, but the custom of -removing irons while on the march is so -common as to have the force of a recognised -regulation, and is seldom, if ever, -objected to by the commander of an -escort.</p> - -<p>Day followed day with unvarying -monotony, but every one brought us -nearer to our destination, and though I -had not yet ventured to effect an exchange, -I never wavered in my resolution -to escape on the first favorable opportunity. -Almost every day we met -vagabonds, as runaway convicts are -called, making for Russia. Their dress, -their closely cropped hair, and their general -appearance left no doubt as to their -quality. Yet neither the officer of the -escort nor the local authorities paid the -least attention to them, so common are -fugitive convicts on Siberian roads. -When they met us they would draw on -one side, sometimes saluting the officer. -I have known old friends meet in this -way.</p> - -<p>“Hallo, Ivan Ivanovitch, how goes -it?” would call out one of the tramps to -a man whom he recognised in the chain -gang.</p> - -<p>“Ah, is that you, Iliouschka?” -would answer the other pleasantly. -“What! have you become a vagabond<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> -already?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I am on the lookout for cheap -lodgings; I dare say I shall soon get -accommodated.”</p> - -<p>This in allusion to the certainty, -sooner or later, of his recapture.</p> - -<p>Political prisoners on the march enjoy -privileges which are denied to ordinary -convicts. They are not fettered; they -can, when so disposed, ride in the carriages -which accompany the convoy, and -they are allowed fifteen kopecs (threepence) -a day for food. On the other -hand, the orders in our regard given to -the officers of the escort were exceedingly -stringent; orders, however, which -for the most part it was impossible to -execute. For instance, they were enjoined -to keep us always apart, and not -let us on any account mix with the other -prisoners. But the weakness of the -escort, and, above all, the arrangement -of the buildings at the <i lang="fr">étapes</i>, or halting-places, -rendered observance of this injunction -so extremely difficult that it -was seldom enforced.</p> - - -<h3><span class="smcap">The Substitution.</span></h3> - -<p>We were within fourteen days of -Irkoutsk before I succeeded in effecting -an exchange of identities with a convict -condemned to simple exile. Many others -followed my example. Of the 170 men -who composed the convoy, not more -than fifty were under sentence of penal -servitude, and at least twenty of them -obtained substitutes. So far as the -prisoners were concerned, this was done -quite openly; concealment, in fact, -would have been impossible, even if it -had been necessary—and it was not -necessary; for so long as the convoy -held together, and the communistic -organisation endured, betrayal was not -to be feared. The traitor would have -died within a few hours of his treason -by the hand of one of his comrades—and -this all knew.</p> - -<p>My substitute, a peasant by origin and -a burglar by profession, agreed to the -exchange of identities in consideration -of a sum of sixteen shillings in coin, a -pair of boots and a flannel blouse. Two -days before our arrival at the <i lang="fr">étape</i>, where -it was arranged to carry the agreement -into effect, I pretended to have a bad -toothache, bound up my face with a -pocket-handkerchief, and at the half-way -halting-place remained all the time on -the bench that served for a bed, as if I -were distracted with pain. This I did to -hide my features from the soldiers of the -escort, one of whom, sharper than his fellows, -might otherwise possibly discover -the stratagem. The risk was too great, -my longing for liberty too intense, to -permit me to neglect a single precaution.</p> - -<p>Exchanges were most easily effected at -the principal halting-places because the -escort was changed there. Among the -common prisoners the transaction was -conducted in the simplest way imaginable. -At the roll-call the contracting -parties answered respectively to each -other's name, took each other's places, -and the thing was done. In the case of -a political prisoner under special surveillance, -just then very stringent, the -operation entailed greater risk and -demanded more care. I arranged with -my substitute that the moment we -arrived at the <i lang="fr">étape</i> in question, he -should follow me to an obscure corner -of the barrack-yard—to speak plainly, to -the latrine. The plan succeeded to -admiration. In a few minutes we had -exchanged dresses. Pavlov, my burglar -friend, was transformed into a -political prisoner of the nobility, and I -became a common malefactor in irons. -Though in face as unlike as possible, we -were about the same height and build, -and, at a distance, might easily be mistaken -one for another.</p> - -<p>The delivery of the gang to the new -escort went off without difficulty. -Pavlov lay on a bench with his face -bound up. Nobody took any notice -either of him or of me, and when the -old escort marched away, we knew we -were safe. The moment they were -gone, I went into the common room -and got myself shaved and my hair cut -close to my head, so that my coiffure -might resemble that of my new comrades.</p> - -<p>I wondered then, and I have often -wondered since, at the ease with which -my custodians were deceived in the matter -of this substitution. On the register -I was set down as a former medical -student. I had, therefore, been a member -of a university; Pavlov, on the other -hand, was almost wholly illiterate. He -could hardly open his mouth without -betraying his origin and showing his -ignorance. His appearance, moreover, -was little in harmony with his new character. -I, as a noble, had worn my hair -and beard long, while his head was -closely cropped, and he wore no beard -at all. How could all this fail to excite -suspicion? For three weeks, he acted -as my substitute, and it never seems to -have occurred either to the officers of -the escort or the authorities of Irkoutsk -that the <i lang="fr">soi-disant</i> Debagorio Mokrievitch -was <em>not</em> the real Simon Pure. But -for the denunciation—of which I shall -speak presently—I do not believe the -secret ever would have been discovered, -always supposing that Pavlov kept the -compact, and he really behaved very -well. One day an officer of the escort, -seeing by the register that I was a -medical student, consulted my substitute -touching some ailment he had, and -Pavlov, with an impudence that bordered -on the sublime, gave him the benefit -of his advice. He was fortunately -not called upon to put his prescription -in writing.</p> - -<p>It may be asked why I did not profit -by the laxity of the escort during the -first part of the journey to escape before -we reached our destination. Because I -should have been missed at the first -halting-place, and by means of the telegraph -and an active pursuit, immediately -recaptured; I could have had only a few -hours' start, and I wanted, at the least, -several days.</p> - -<p>After the substitution, I marched as a -common felon on foot, carrying my -irons; my allowance was reduced to twopence -a-day, while Pavlov had threepence, -and could vary the monotony of -the way by riding in one of the carriages -provided for the political prisoners.</p> - -<p>About October 20, 1879, we reached -Irkoutsk, where we were to be received -and inspected by the higher authorities. -Towards eight o'clock in the evening, -we entered the central prison and were -taken into a large room with three doors -and two exits. One of these was open -and led into an adjoining room, where -the inspection took place. Our starosta -standing on the doorstep, called the -prisoners one by one, and each, as he -was summoned, went into the room, -carrying with him his poor belongings, -in order that it might be ascertained if -he still possessed the articles given him -by the Crown. This done, he passed -on into a further apartment, where the -prisoners were to be quartered for the -night.</p> - -<p>At length came my turn.</p> - -<p>“Pavlov!” shouts the starosta.</p> - -<p>“Here,” I answered, and, taking up -my bag, I enter the audience chamber, -and find myself in the presence of several -important-looking functionaries, sitting -at a big table covered with registers.</p> - -<p>“Paul Pavlov?” says the presiding -councillor, and then, after favoring me -with a fugitive glance, he bends once -more over his books.</p> - -<p>“Yes, your nobleness,” I reply, -doing my best to speak and look like a -peasant prisoner.</p> - - - -<p>“For what crime were you judged?”</p> - -<p>“For burglary, your nobleness.”</p> - -<p>“Are the effects given you by the -Government all in order?”</p> - -<p>“They are, your nobleness.”</p> - -<p>“Two shirts, two pairs of drawers, -woollen trousers, great coat, pelisse, a -pair of boots, leg irons?” enumerated -the councillor, in a rapid, monotonous -voice.</p> - -<p>As each article is named, I say, “It -is here,” and during the interrogation -an obscure personage fumbles in my bag -to verify my statement.</p> - -<p>This concluded the inspection, and -after surrendering my fetters, which I -removed without the help of a blacksmith, -I passed into the apartment where -I was to remain as a prisoner until they -took me to the village where I had to be -interned as a settler.</p> - -<p>I had not long to wait. The fifth day -after our arrival, the remaining vagabonds -of the gang were sent further east, -and there remained only the ordinary -exiles and prisoners under sentence of -penal servitude. An important consequence -of the departure of the vagabonds—old -offenders who formed the -bulk of the convoy—was the break-up of -our communistic organisation, and the -subsequent revelation of my secret.</p> - -<p>On the following day the involuntary -colonists, of whom I was now one, -started for our final destination, a village -some forty miles from Irkoutsk, and on -November 1st, we arrived at Talminsky, -the end of our long journey. For the -last time we were paraded and counted -in the court of the <i lang="ru">volost</i>. Then, after -our effects had been again examined, we -received our registers and were handed -over to the clerk of the village, who had -orders to find us quarters.</p> - -<p>The escort went one way, we went -another, and we walked through the -streets of the great village free men—within -the limits assigned to us.</p> - - -<h3><span class="smcap">The Flight.</span></h3> - -<p>If I meant to escape I had no time to -lose. At any moment I was liable to be -betrayed. My comrades among the colonists, -as also the prisoners we had left at -Irkoutsk, all knew who I was. Any of -these, by turning traitor, could earn a -considerable reward; even a slight indiscretion -might reveal the secret, and -the disclosure of my identity to the -authorities would lead to my immediate -arrest. It was therefore necessary to go -at once; yet I could not start on so long -a journey without money, and I did not -possess a kopeck. So I sold my great -coat, my woollen trousers, and my -gloves, for a rouble and a half. It was -not much. After this depletion of my -wardrobe, my costume left a good deal -to be desired. A regulation pelisse, a -fur cap, thin trousers, and ordinary underclothing, -did not afford much protection -against the intense cold of a -Siberian winter. But I dared not hesitate. -On November 2d, at ten o'clock, -before noon, I set out from the village. -The morning though cold was clear and -quiet. I made no attempt to hide my -quality; it was evident to everybody. -My yellow regulation pelisse and closely -cropped head showed clearly enough that -I was a vagabond. But this gave me -little anxiety; I had observed that -in Eastern Siberia vagabonds were -neither arrested nor questioned. It -would be the same with me, I thought, -and in this expectation I was not disappointed. -My journey as a vagabond -lasted about eight days, and I suffered -much both from hunger and cold. In -the valleys—for the country was hilly—I -often experienced a cold so intense that -I thought my limbs would freeze as I -walked. Sometimes the valley bottoms -were filled with a thick fog. Going -through one of those fogs was like taking -a bath of pins and needles—so keen was -the cold—and, though on these occasions -I always ran, one of my knees became -frost-bitten—my pelisse not being long -enough to cover my legs, which were -clothed only in light cotton pantaloons.</p> - -<p>I generally passed the night in the -bath-room of some peasant after the -manner of vagabonds, for nobody in -Siberia, however poor, is without a -vapor bath, the vapor being produced -by pouring water on red-hot stones.</p> - -<p>One afternoon, just as night was closing -in, I reached a village and sought a -lodging. I had heard from the experienced -vagabonds of the gang that it was -always better to ask charity or help from -the poor than from the well-to-do. -Never, they said, when you are on the -tramp, knock at the door of a rich man's -house. Go rather to the most wretched -cabin you can find.</p> - -<p>This rule, based on a wide experience -and a profound truth—for the poor -naturally receive more sympathy from -the poor than from the well-to-do—I -deemed it expedient to follow. At the -end of the village in question I found -a cabin of unprepossessing aspect, and, -concluding that it was exactly what I -wanted, I went in, making, as I entered, -the sign of the cross before the picture -of a saint, as is the custom in Russia. -Then I greeted my hosts.</p> - -<p>“Good day, my boy,” answered the -peasant, an old man with a long white -beard, in a kindly voice.</p> - -<p>“Could you sell me a bit of bread?” -I asked; for though I travelled as a -vagabond I did not like to beg after the -manner of vagabonds, and always tendered -a piece of money for what I received.</p> - -<p>“Yes, you can have bread,” said the -old man, handing me a loaf.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, father; and may I pass -the night in your house?”</p> - -<p>“I fear that is impossible, my boy. -You are a vagabond, aren't you? They -are very severe just now about vagabonds, -the police are. If you take in a -man without a passport you may get -fined. Where do you come from, my -boy?”</p> - -<p>“From the convoy.”</p> - -<p>“I thought so. I was right then. -You are a vagabond.”</p> - -<p>I answered with a supplicatory gesture, -and I dare say I looked cold enough -and wretched enough to move the compassion -of a harder-hearted man than -this good old peasant.</p> - -<p>“You fellows generally sleep in the -baths, don't you?” he said, after a -pause. “Well, go into mine if you -like; I can put you nowhere else. And -I have heated it to-day; you will be -warm.”</p> - -<p>So picking up my loaf, and laying on -the table a few kopecks—nobody ever -thinks of bargaining with a wanderer—I -leave the house. The bath is hard by, -and on going in I find that it is quite -warm, as the old man had said. The -heat is so great, indeed, that I can dispense -with my pelisse.</p> - -<p>These peasants' bath-rooms are seldom -supplied with a chimney. The -stones are heated in the middle of the -room, and the smoke, after blackening -the rafters, finds its way out as best it -can. There were no windows, and, in -order to look round, I had to light one -of the tallow candles which I carried in -my bag. They were very useful for rubbing -my feet with after a long march. I -was in no hurry to sleep, and before -lying down on the wooden bench which -was to be my couch I had a little operation -to perform. My yellow pelisse proclaimed -my quality a long way off. That -was an inconvenience, and in certain -easily conceivable circumstances, might -lead to awkward consequences. I meant -to change its color. This I did by smearing -the garment with a mixture composed -of tallow from my candles and -soot from the wall. It was not a very -fast black perhaps, but it answered the -purpose. Henceforth, nobody, without -a pretty close inspection, would perceive -that I was a vagabond on the tramp.</p> - -<p>This done, I lay down on the bench -and was soon fast asleep. I must have -slept an hour or two when I was wakened -by the creaking of the door, and I -heard the heavy steps of a man entering -the room. As it was pitch dark I could -not see him, and I did not think it -worth while to strike a light. The newcomer -seemed to be of the same opinion, -for, without speaking a word, he -groped his way towards my bench and -laid down beside me. Though he -touched my body he made no remark, -and a few moments later I could tell by -his regular breathing that he was fast -asleep. Then I slept again, and did not -open my eyes until I was wakened by the -cold—for the bath-room had lost all its -warmth, and the temperature was far -below freezing-point. So I rose from -my couch, donned my pelisse, and, -though the sun had not yet risen, I left -my snoring bed-fellow, whom I never -saw, to his slumbers and resumed my -journey.</p> - -<p>My plan was to reach the house of a -friend about 150 miles from the village -where I had been interned. To traverse -a region as large as Europe without -money was quite out of the question, -and even if I had succeeded in doing so -it would have been impossible, without -papers, either to cross the frontier or -leave the country. It is hardly necessary -to say that I took care never to ask -my way. That would have been a great -imprudence. And there was little need, -for the roads in Siberia are so few that -it is scarcely possible to go wrong. According -to my reckoning I was still -about thirty miles from my destination. -Shortly after leaving the village I saw, -near a little cabin by the road-side, a -man who eyed me keenly. From his -short hair and stubby beard I guessed -that he was a recently arrived colonist -who had come into the country with a -chain gang.</p> - -<p>“Won't you come in, brother,” he -said, “and rest yourself and take a cup -of tea?”</p> - -<p>I accepted the invitation with pleasure, -for I had not broken my fast. We -entered the cabin together. It was very -small, and on a brick hearth was sitting -a woman, probably the exile's wife. My -host asked me to take a seat and began -to prepare the samovar, an appliance -which is found in every Siberian cottage. -As we drank we talked.</p> - -<p>“Is it a long time since you left the -gang?” asked my entertainer.</p> - -<p>“Quite lately. I belonged to convoy -number four.”</p> - -<p>“You have turned vagabond then, -brother?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, what is the good of staying -here?”</p> - -<p>“You are quite right,” returned the -exile bitterly. “The country is abominable. -I shall do the same thing myself -in a month or two. Which way do -you go—by the Angara road?”</p> - -<p>I gave him an itinerary, though not -exactly the one I meant to follow.</p> - -<p>“I know all these places well,” observed -my host. “But do you know -you will have to be prudent. The authorities -hereabouts are very vicious just -now. They arrest every wayfarer they -see. You must look out, my brother, -or they will arrest you.”</p> - -<p>“What would you advise me to do, -then,” I asked, greatly alarmed at this -news.</p> - -<p>“I will tell you, brother; listen!”</p> - -<p>And then he gave me very valuable -information; described the villages -through or near which I should have to -pass, indicating at the same time those -that were dangerous and the footpaths -by which I might avoid them. He gave -me the names and described the dwellings -of the peasants with whom I might -lodge, and, in a word, told me everything -which it imported a wandering outlaw -to know.</p> - -<p>“But why,” I asked, “are the police -so active just now? I thought this road -was one of the safest for vagabonds in -the whole country.”</p> - -<p>“God knows. Perhaps they have -found a body somewhere and are looking -for the murderer.”</p> - -<p>I made no remark, but I thought it -was much more likely that they had discovered -my flight and were looking for -me. And so it proved.</p> - -<p>After finishing the tea we talked a little -longer, and as I took my leave I -thanked my host warmly for his hospitality -and information.</p> - -<p>When I reached the last village before -that at which lived my friend, I was -quite overcome with fatigue, and faint -with hunger and cold; but I counted -on a long and quiet rest in the cottage -of a peasant woman whose address had -been given me by the friendly exile. It -was at the extremity of the village, and -to get thither I had to pass the headquarters -of the communal authorities. -In the light of the exile's warning, and -my own fears, this seemed a sufficiently -dangerous enterprise. Albeit I put on -an air of indifference and took care not -to increase my pace, yet I could not -avoid an occasional backward glance to -see if I was being followed. No one, -however, seemed to notice me, and I -reached my destination without receiving -any unpleasant attentions. The -peasant woman welcomed me kindly, if -not very effusively. But she was a dear -good soul, gave me of her best, and let -me lie on a bench and pass the night in -her house.</p> - -<p>About two hours before sunrise my -hostess came into the kitchen and began -to busy herself with preparations for -breakfast. But I remained stretched on -my bench; the cottage was warm. I felt -very comfortable, and I saw no reason for -hurry. The day was before me, and I -had not far to go. So I turned round -on my wooden couch and was just sinking -into a second slumber when I heard -the sound of bells, such as post-chaises -and mail-carts in Russia invariably -carry.</p> - - - -<p>“Bells!” I cried, starting up. “Does -a mail-coach run on this road?”</p> - -<p>“No,” answered the peasant, “we -have no mail-coach here; it is probably -a private carriage which is passing -through the village.”</p> - -<p>Meanwhile the bells came nearer; -then the sound suddenly ceased, as it -seemed not far from the cottage. I did -not like this at all. What could it -mean?</p> - -<p>“Would you mind going to see what -or whose carriage it is?” I said. She -went, and as the door closed behind -her, I jumped off my bench and put on -my clothes.</p> - -<p>In a few minutes she was back with -the news that the carriage belonged to -the gendarmes, and that they were questioning -the <i lang="ru">starosta</i> and the clerk.</p> - -<p>“The gendarmes!” I exclaimed, -“who says so—where are they from?”</p> - -<p>“From Irkoutsk. It is the coachman -himself who told me. He thinks they -are after a political runaway.”</p> - -<p>“In that case, I had better be going,” -I said, laughing. “They may perhaps -think I am the man. Now look here—if -they ask you any questions, know -nothing. If you do it may be worse for -you; they may make you pay a fine. -Good-by” (putting the last of my kopecks -on the table).</p> - -<p>“Good-by,” answered my hostess; -“don't be uneasy. I shall not say a -word.” She was a worthy woman, and a -friend in need, that old peasant.</p> - -<p>I went out. It was still dark, and I -might creep through the village without -being seen. The last of the houses -passed, I ran at the top of my speed, -for I felt sure that the pursuers were at -my heels, and the possibility of being -retaken enraged me almost past endurance. -I had been denounced shortly -after leaving the settlement, of that there -could be no doubt. But how had the -police managed to trace me so soon? I -had been very careful, neglected no conceivable -precaution, given misleading -answers to all who questioned me about -my past movements and future plans. -I had made long <i lang="fr">detours</i> to avoid the -larger villages, and during the latter part -of my journey put up only with the most -trusted friends of vagabond wanderers. -Yet the gendarmes had followed me step -by step to my very last resting-place, -and but for the friendly warning of the -bells I should certainly have been recaptured, -for I could not have left the village -by daylight without being seen. -Even now I was in imminent danger; -my safety absolutely depended on my -reaching my friend's house at once, and -lying a long time in hiding. Though I -had never been there, I knew the place -so well by description—its situation and -appearance were so vividly impressed on -my mind—that I could find it, even in -the dark, without asking a question. -It was only about seven miles from the -village I had just left. But how could -I get thither unperceived? For if I was -seen by a single person entering my -friend's house, it might be the ruin of -us both. Something must be decided -on the instant. Day was dawning, the -gendarmes were behind me, and by the -barking of the dogs I reckoned that the -village where dwelt my friend could not -be more than two miles away. I looked -round. On one side of the road were -open fields; on the other thick brushwood -grew. As yet, I had not met a -soul,—nobody could tell the gendarmes -in which direction I had gone—but it -was now no longer dark, and if I went -on, I might encounter a peasant or a -wayfarer any moment. Only one thing -could be done; I must hide somewhere—even -at the risk of being frozen stiff—and -remain hidden until sundown, when -I might perchance gain my friend's -house unperceived. Among the bushes! -Yes, that was the place, I could lie <i lang="fr">perdu</i> -there all day. But just as I was about -to put this plan into execution, another -thought came to trouble me. How -about my footsteps? Fresh snow had -fallen in the night, and the police could -follow me to my hiding-place as easily -as a hound tracks a deer to its lair. -And then I bethought me of an ingenious -artifice, about which I had read in -some romance. Turning my face to the -road I walked backward toward the -bushes, taking care at every step to -make a distinct impression on the snow. -It was now quite daylight, and a little -way off I could see two summer cabins -of the Buriats—in winter always empty. -Thither I went, always backward, and -entering one of the cabins remained -there the whole day and far into the -night. When I thought all the peasants -would be indoors, I stole quietly out, -and going stealthily and with many precautions -to my friend's house, knocked -in fear and misgiving at his door.</p> - -<p>To my great relief he opened it himself.</p> - -<p>“I should not have recognised you, -if I had not just heard all your history,” -he said, after we had exchanged greetings.</p> - -<p>“I am very curious to see myself,” I -returned, approaching a mirror which -hung on the wall. “I have not seen a -looking-glass since my arrest.”</p> - -<p>I was so much altered that I hardly -knew myself. I saw before me the reflection -of a wild, strange, haggard face, -and I could almost have believed I was -somebody else.</p> - -<p>“When did you hear of my flight?” I -asked.</p> - -<p>“To-day. There has been quite an -inquest here. The gendarmes questioned -everybody and searched every -house. They followed you step by step -to the last village. They found out -where you passed the night, and then -they seem to have lost the scent entirely. -Where have you been?”</p> - -<p>I told him.</p> - -<p>“Did anybody see you come here?”</p> - -<p>“Not a soul.”</p> - -<p>“Good. All the same, you must not -stay here an hour longer than we can -help. It would be too dangerous. The -police are baffled; but they have by no -means given up the quest, and as likely -as not will be here again to-morrow. -You must not sleep here.”</p> - -<p>“Where then?”</p> - -<p>“At my farm. But first of all you -must change your skin.”</p> - -<p>As he spoke, my friend in need opened -a cupboard, and took therefrom some -garments in which, when I had arrayed -myself and had a good wash, I looked -and felt like a new man.</p> - -<p>“Is your farm far from here?” I -asked, as we sat down to supper.</p> - -<p>“About twenty-five versts (fifteen -miles), in the depth of the forest, far -from any highway. Hunting parties -from Irkoutsk visit us there sometimes. -Your coming will, therefore, be no surprise -for the servants. It is true your -hair is just a little short (looking at my -head); but that is nothing. You have -had typhoid fever, and are going to recruit -your strength in the forest. You -look haggard enough to have had three -fevers.”</p> - -<p>An hour later we were <i lang="fr">en route</i>, my -friend, who had lived many years in the -country, himself taking the reins, and he -contrived matters so well that nobody in -the house knew either of my coming or -my going. The police were thrown -completely off the scent.</p> - - -<h3><span class="smcap">Liberty.</span></h3> - -<p>As I learnt subsequently, my identity -and my stratagem were revealed to the -authorities by one of my comrades of -the convoy shortly after I left Irkoutsk. -But when the gendarmes went to the -village of Talminsky, I had already -vanished. Every effort was, however, -made to retake me, the quest being kept -up night and day for six weeks. Then -it was rumored that a body found in the -forest had been identified as mine, and -that I had perished of hunger. According -to another story, I had been arrested -at Nijni Oudinsk, and was being brought -back to Irkoutsk. Among the vagabonds -who at this time were captured -right and left on the high roads throughout -the province, were several whom it -pleased to call themselves by my name. -The deceit was naturally soon detected, -but while it lasted the deceivers enjoyed -certain advantages, which helped to render -their detention tolerable. Instead -of walking they rode in carriages, and -were accompanied by an escort, and being -regarded as important prisoners, they -were both better fed and better treated -than common malefactors, while their -audacity rendered them highly popular -with their vagabond and convict comrades. -There were at one time no fewer -than four false Debagorio Mokrievitches -in the jail of Irkoutsk. The police -sought me with great diligence among -the political exiles of the province; a -most stupid proceeding on their part, -for to take refuge with the politicals -would have been putting my head in the -lion's mouth.</p> - -<p>Three other men who about the same -time attempted to escape were all recaptured.</p> - -<p>I stayed in Siberia a year, making -during that time several journeys to the -eastward of Irkoutsk. At length the -police having abandoned all hope of finding -me, I resolved to leave the country. -A passport being absolutely necessary, I -borrowed the name and obtained the -papers of a gentleman recently deceased—Ivan -Alexandrovitch Selivanoff. It -was in the winter of 1880 that I set out -on my long journey of 3,600 miles. I -travelled post, by way of Irkoutsk, Krasnoiarsk -and Tomsk—towns through -which, a twelvemonth before, I had -passed as a prisoner. Rather a bold -undertaking in the circumstances; but -as I possessed an itinerary-card signed -by the governor of the province, giving -me the right to relays of horses, I -ran no great danger, and left the home -of my hospitable friend with an easy -mind.</p> - -<p>During the journey I met from time -to time gangs of prisoners on the way -from Russia to Irkoutsk. The clanking -of the irons, the yellow pelisses, the -worn faces, the weary walk, and the -shorn heads of these unfortunates—how -familiar they all were, and how the sight -of them thrilled me to the soul! And -behind the chain gang came the wagons -of the political prisoners, among whom, -more than once, I recognized the face -of a dear friend. But instead of jumping -from my carriage and folding the -poor fellows in my arms, I had to look -the other way!</p> - -<p>All went well with me, but once I had -a terribly narrow escape of falling a -second time into the toils. It so -chanced that I passed through the province -of Tobolsk in company with a -tchinovnik (government employé), whose -acquaintance I had made on the road, a -big-paunched, rosy-cheeked fellow, with -merry eyes and a mellow voice; and, -being on his way home after a long -absence, in high good humor and full -of fun. Once at the end of a long day's -journey, we arrived about midnight at a -town in the neighborhood of Tobolsk, -and, being tired and sleepy, resolved to -pass the rest of the night there. So we -went into the travellers' room, ordered -tea, and handed our itinerary cards to -the starosta of the station, in order that -he might make the necessary entries in -the travellers' book. Before going to -the sleeping room we requested that the -horses might be ready at seven o'clock -next morning.</p> - - - -<p>I slept the sleep of the just, rose betimes, -and called for the starosta.</p> - -<p>“Are the horses ready?” I asked. -“And be good enough to bring hither -our itinerary-cards.”</p> - -<p>“The station-master will himself -bring your itinerary-cards, and as for the -horses they are already yoked up.”</p> - -<p>Half-an-hour later the station-master -(otherwise director), came into our -room, holding in his hand the itinerary-cards.</p> - -<p>“I am sorry to trouble you,” he said -politely; “but I should like to know -which of you young gentlemen is Ivan -Alexandrovitch Selivanoff?”</p> - -<p>“At your service sir,” I answered, -stepping forward.</p> - -<p>The station-master looked at me with -a ludicrous expression of bewilderment -and surprise.</p> - -<p>“A thousand pardons,” he said at -length, with a low bow. “But really—I -don't quite understand. The fact is, I -knew Mr. Selivanoff, and here I see the -same surname and Christian name; the -name of the father is also the same, the -tchin (rank) likewise! Yet I was told -he had died—more than a year ago—but -when I saw his name on the card I -thought the news must be false, and I -came to assure myself. I see that I -am mistaken. A thousand pardons, sir, -a thousand pardons,” and again he -saluted me still more profoundly than -before.</p> - -<p>I felt as if the ground were opening -under my feet, and was thinking how on -earth I should get out of the scrape, when -my companion came—without knowing -it—to the rescue.</p> - -<p>“What a capital joke!” he shouted, -clapping me on the back, and laughing -so that he could hardly speak. “One -might suppose that the worthy director -takes you for an escaped prisoner with -a dead man's passport. Ha, ha, ha, -what a capital joke to be sure!”</p> - -<p>And holding his big belly with both -hands, he balanced himself first on one -foot and then the other, laughing the -while, until he could hardly stand.</p> - -<p>“You are quite right,” I said, also -laughing, though with considerable -effort. “It is really an excellent joke. -But seriously (turning to the station-master), -the thing is easily explained. -In the part I come from the Selivanoffs -are as plentiful as blackberries. The -late Ivan Alexandrovitch, your friend, -and I were kinsmen, and had a great -affection for each other; the name is so -common in the province that I could -introduce you to a dozen of my namesakes -any day.”</p> - -<p>The station-master seemed satisfied -with this explanation. At any rate, he -made no objection to our departure, and -shortly afterwards we were once more -<i lang="fr">en route</i>. But my companion, the -tchinovnik did not cease laughing for a -long time. “To take you for a fugitive -convict with a false passport!” he -would say “it is really too good,” and -whenever he remembered the incident -he would laugh as if he never meant to -stop. I remembered it, as may be supposed, -with very different feelings. The -escape was a very narrow one, and -showed me how much I was still at the -mercy of the slightest mishap. But this -proved to be my last adventure and my -last peril. In May, 1881, I reached Geneva, -and felt that I was at last really free.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>As most stories of Russian revolutionary -life have necessarily, if they be true, -a tragical termination, readers of the -foregoing narrative may be pleased to -know that M. Mokrievitch is still in a -land where he feels really free. Though -one of the heroes of Russian liberty he -has not yet become one of its martyrs. -But the time may come when he, as -many other fugitives have done, will return -to the volcanic soil of his native -country, there to take part in the -struggle to death which, though unseen, -goes always on, and must continue without -truce and without surcease until the -sun of Freedom shall dawn in the Empire -of the Night.—<cite>Contemporary Review.</cite></p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - -<div class="chapter"></div> - -<h2><a name="COLERIDGE_AS_A_SPIRITUAL_THINKER" id="COLERIDGE_AS_A_SPIRITUAL_THINKER">COLERIDGE AS A SPIRITUAL THINKER.</a></h2> - -<p class="aut">BY PRINCIPAL TULLOCH.</p> - - -<p>Mr. Traill's recent volume has recalled -the poet-philosopher who died -just fifty years ago, leaving a strongly -marked but indefinite impression upon -the mind of his time. The volume has -done something to renew and vivify the -impression both in respect of Coleridge's -poetry and criticism. His work as a -critic has never, perhaps, been better or -more completely exhibited. It is recognised -generously in all its largeness and -profundity, as well as delicacy and -subtlety; and justice is especially done -to his Shakesperian commentary, which -in its richness, variety, felicity, combined -with depth and acuteness, is absolutely -unrivalled. But Mr. Traill cannot be -said to have even attempted any estimate -of Coleridge as a spiritual thinker. It -may be questioned how far he has -recognised that there is a spiritual side -to all his thought, without which neither -his poetry nor his criticism can be fully -understood, cleverly as they may be -judged.</p> - -<p>It is not only out of date, but outside -of all intelligent judgment to quote at -this time of day Mr. Carlyle's well-known -caricature from his <cite>Life of Sterling</cite>, -and put readers off with this as -a “famous criticism.” We now know -how to value utterances of this kind, -and the unhappy spirit of detraction -which lay beneath such wild and -grotesque humors. Carlyle will always -remain an artist in epithets—but few will -turn to him for an intelligent or comprehensive -estimate of any great name of -his own or of recent time.</p> - -<p>We propose to look at Coleridge for a -little as a religious thinker, and to ask -what is the meaning and value of his -work in this respect now that we can -calmly and fully judge it. If Coleridge -was anything, he was not only in his -own view, as Mr. Traill admits, but in -the view of his generation, a religious -philosopher. It is not only the testimony -of men like Hare, or Sterling, or -Maurice, or even Cardinal Newman, but -of John Stuart Mill, that his teaching -awakened and freshened all contemporary -thought. He was recognised with -all his faults as a truly great thinker, -who raised the mind of the time and gave -it new and wide impulses. This judgment -we feel sure will yet verify itself. If -English literature ever regains the higher -tone of our earlier national life—the -tone of Hooker and Milton and Jeremy -Taylor—Coleridge will be again acknowledged, -in Julius Hare's words, as -“a true sovereign of English thought.” -He will take rank in the same line of -spiritual genius. He has the same elevation -of feeling, the same profound -grasp of moral and spiritual ideas, the -same wide range of vision. He has, in -short, the same love of wisdom, the -same insight, the same largeness—never -despising nature or art, or literature, for -the sake of religion, still less ever despising -religion for the sake of culture. In -reading over Coleridge's prose works -again, returning to them after a long -past familiarity, I am particularly struck -by their massive and large intellectuality, -akin to our older Elizabethan -literature. There is everywhere the play -of great power—of imagination as well -as reason—of spiritual perception as well -as logical subtlety.</p> - -<p>To speak of Coleridge in this manner -as a great spiritual power, an eminently -healthy writer in the higher regions of -thought, may seem absurd to some who -think mainly of his life, and of the fatal -failure which characterised it. It is the -shadow of this failure of manliness in his -conduct, as in that of his life-long -friend, Charles Lamb, which no doubt -prompted the great genius who carried -manliness, if little sweetness, from his -Annandale home, to paint both the one -and the other in such darkened colors. -We have not a word to say on behalf of -the failings of either. They were deplorable -and unworthy; but it is the fact, -notwithstanding, that the mind of both -retained a serenity and a certain touch -of respectfulness which are lacking in -their great Scottish contemporary. -They were both finer-edged than Carlyle. -They inherited a more delicate and -polite personal culture; and delicacy can -never be far distant from true manliness. -Neither of them could have written of the -treasures of old religion as Carlyle did -in his <cite>Life of Sterling</cite>. Whether they -accepted for themselves those treasures -or not, they would have spared the tender -faith of others and respected an -ancient ideal. And this is the higher -attitude. Nothing which has ever -deeply interested humanity or profoundly -moved it, is treated with contempt -by a good and wise man. It may -call for and deserve rejection, but never -insult. Unhappily this attitude of mind, -reserved, as well as critical, reverent as -well as bold, has been conspicuously -absent in some of the most powerful and -best known writers of our era.</p> - -<p>There is a striking contrast between -the career of Coleridge and that of his -friend Wordsworth. Fellows in the -opening of their poetic course, they soon -diverged widely. With a true instinct, -Wordsworth devoted himself, in quietness -and seclusion, to the cultivation -of his poetic faculty. He left aside the -world of politics and of religious -thought, strongly moved as he had been -by the interests of both. It may be said -that Wordsworth continued a religious -thinker as well as poet all his life. And -to some extent this is true. The -“Wanderer” is a preacher and not -only a singer. He goes to the heart -of religion, and lays again its foundations -in the natural instincts of man. -But while Wordsworth's poetry was -instinct with a new life of religious -feeling, and may be said to have given -a new radiancy to its central principles,<a id="FNanchor_2_2" href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">2</a> -it did not initiate any movement -in Christian thought. In religious -opinion Wordsworth soon fell back -upon, if he ever consciously departed -from, the old line of Anglican traditions. -The vague Pantheism of the <em>Excursion</em> -implies rather a lack of distinctive -dogma than any fresh insight into religious -problems or capacity of co-ordinating -them in a new manner. And so -soon as definite religious conceptions -came to the poet, the Church in her customary -theology became a satisfactory -refuge. The <cite>Ecclesiastical Sonnets</cite> mark -this definite stage in his spiritual -development. Wordsworth did for the -religious thought of his time something -more and better perhaps than giving it -any definite impulse. While leaving it -in the old channels, he gave it a richer -and deeper volume. He showed with -what vital affinity religion cleaves to -humanity, in all its true and simple -phases, when uncontaminated by conceit -or frivolity. Nature and man alike -were to him essentially religious, or only -conceivable as the outcome of a Spirit -of life, “the Soul of all the worlds.”<a id="FNanchor_3_3" href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">3</a> -Wordsworth, in short, remained as he -began, a poet of a deeply religious -spirit. But he did not enter the domain -of theological speculation or attempt to -give any new direction to it.</p> - -<p>In all this Coleridge is his counterpart. -He may be said to have abandoned -poetry just when Wordsworth in -his retirement at Grasmere (1799) was -consecrating his life to it. Whether it -be true, according to De Quincey, that -Coleridge's poetical power was killed by -the habit of opium-eating, it is certainly -true that the harp of Quantock<a id="FNanchor_4_4" href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">4</a> was -never again struck save for a brief moment. -The poet Coleridge passed into -the lecturer and the poetical and literary -critic, and then, during the final period -of his life, from 1816 to 1834, into the -philosopher and theologian. It is to -this latter period of his life in the main -that his higher prose writings belong, and -especially the well-known <cite>Aids to Reflection</cite> -which—disparaged as it is by -Mr. Traill—may be said to contain, as -his disciples have always held to contain, -all the finer substance of his spiritual -thought. It is true that it is defective as -a literary composition. We are even -disposed to allow that it has “less -charm of thought, less beauty of style,” -and in some respects even less “power -of effective statement,”<a id="FNanchor_5_5" href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">5</a> than is common -with Coleridge; but withal it is his -highest work. These very defects only -serve to bring out the more its strong -points, when we consider the wonderful -hold the book has taken of many minds, -and how it has been the subject of -elaborate commentary.<a id="FNanchor_6_6" href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">6</a> It is a book, -we may at the same time say, which -none but a thinker on divine things will -ever like. All such thinkers have prized -it greatly. To many such it has given a -new force of religious insight; for its -time, beyond all doubt, it created a real -epoch in Christian thought. It had life -in it; and the living seed, scattered and -desultory as it was, brought forth fruit -in many minds.</p> - -<p>What, then, were its main contributions -to religious thought, and in what -respects generally is Coleridge to be reckoned -a spiritual power?</p> - -<p>(1.) First, and chiefly, in the <cite>Aids -to Reflection</cite>, Coleridge may be said to -have transformed and renewed the current -ideas of his time about religion. -He was, we know, a man of many ambitions -never realised; but of all his -ambitions, the most persistent was that -of laying anew the foundations of -spiritual philosophy. This was “the -great work” to which he frequently -alluded as having given “the preparation -of more than twenty years of his -life.”<a id="FNanchor_7_7" href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">7</a> Like other great tasks projected -by him, it was very imperfectly accomplished; -and there will always be those -in consequence who fail to understand -his influence as a leader of thought. -We are certainly not bound to take -Coleridge at his own value, nor to attach -the same importance as he did to some -of his speculations. No one, indeed, -knew better than Coleridge himself that -there was nothing new in his Platonic -Realism. It was merely a restoration of -the old religious metaphysic which had -preceded “the mechanical systems,” -that became dominant in the reign of -Charles the Second. He himself constantly -claims to do nothing more than -re-assert the principles of Hooker, of -Henry More, of John Smith, and Leighton, -all of whom he speaks of as -“Platonizing divines!” But the religious -teaching of Coleridge came upon -his generation as a new breath, not -merely or mainly because he revived these -ancient principles, but because he -vitalised anew their application to Christianity, -so as to transform it from a mere -creed, or collection of articles, into a -living mode of thought, embracing all -human activity. Coleridge was no mere -metaphysician. He was a great interpreter -of spiritual facts—a student of -spiritual life, quickened by a peculiarly -vivid and painful experience; and he -saw in Christianity, rightly conceived, at -once the true explanation of the facts of -our spiritual being and the true remedy -for their disorder. He brought human -nature, not merely on one side, but all -sides, once more near to Christianity, so -as to find in it not merely a means of salvation -in any limited evangelical sense, -but the highest Truth and Health—a -perfect philosophy. His main power -lies in this subjective direction, just as -here it was that his age was most needing -stimulus and guidance.</p> - -<p>The Evangelical School, with all its -merits, had conceived of Christianity -rather as something superadded the -highest life of humanity than as the -perfect development of that life; as a -scheme for human salvation authenticated -by miracles, and, so to speak, interpolated -into human history rather than -a divine philosophy, witnessing to itself -from the beginning in all the higher -phases of that history. And so Philosophy, -and no less Literature, and -Art, and Science, were conceived apart -from religion. The world and the -Church were not only antagonistic in the -Biblical sense, as the embodiments of -the Carnal and the Divine Spirit—which -they must ever be; but they were, so to -speak, severed portions of life divided by -outward signs and badges: and those -who joined the one or the other were -supposed to be clearly marked off. All -who know the writings of the Evangelical -School of the eighteenth and earlier -part of the nineteenth century, from the -poetry of Cowper and the letters of his -friend Newton, to the writings of -Romaine, John Forster, and Wilberforce, -and even Chalmers, will know -how such commonplaces everywhere reappear -in them. That they were associated -with the most devout and beautiful -lives, that they even served to foster a -peculiar ardor of Christian feeling and -love of God, cannot be disputed. But -they were essentially narrow and false. -They destroyed the largeness and unity -of human experience. They not merely -separated religion from art and philosophy, -but they tended to separate it from -morality.</p> - -<p>Coleridge's most distinctive work was -to restore the broken harmony between -reason and religion, by enlarging the -conception of both, but of the latter -especially,—by showing how man is essentially -a religious being having a definite -spiritual constitution, apart from -which the very idea of religion becomes -impossible. Religion is not, therefore, -something brought to man, it is his -highest education. Religion, he says, -was designed “to improve the nature -and the faculties of man, in order to -the right governing of our actions, to -the securing the peace and progress, -eternal and internal, of individuals and -communities.” Christianity is in the -highest degree adapted to this end; and -nothing can be a part of it that is not -duly proportioned thereto. In thus -vindicating the rationality of religion, -Coleridge had a twofold task before -him, as every such thinker has. He had -to assert against the Epicurean and -Empirical School the spiritual constitution -of human nature, and against the -fanatical or hyper-evangelical school -the reasonable working of spiritual influence. -He had to maintain, on the -one hand, the essential divinity of man, -that “there is more in him than can be -rationally referred to the life of nature -and the mechanism of organisation,” and -on the other hand to show that this -higher life of the spirit is throughout -rational—that it is superstition and not -true religion which professes to resolve -“men's faith and practice” into the -illumination of such a spirit as they can -give no account of,—such as does not -enlighten their reason or enable them -to render their doctrine intelligible to -others. He fights, in short, alike -against materialistic negation and credulous -enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>The former he meets with the assertion -of “a spirituality in man,” a self-power -or Will at the root of all his -being. “If there be aught spiritual in -man, the will must be such. If there -be a will, there must be a spirituality in -man.” He assumes both positions, -seeing clearly—what all who radically -deal with such a question must see—that -it becomes in the end an alternative -postulate on one side and the other. -The theologian cannot prove his case, -because the very terms in which it must -be proved are already denied <i lang="la">ab initio</i> by -the materialist. But no more can the -materialist, for the same reason, refute -the spiritual thinker. There can be no -argument where no common premiss is -granted. Coleridge was quite alive to -this, yet he validly appeals to common -experience. “I assume,” he says, “a -something the proof which no man can -give to another, yet every man may find -for himself. If any man assert that he -has no such experience, I am bound to -disbelieve him, I cannot do otherwise -without unsettling the foundation of my -own moral nature. For I either find it -as an essential of the humanity common -to him and to me, or I have not found -it at all.... All the significant objections -of the materialist and necessitarian,” -he adds, “are contained in the -term morality, and all the objections of -the infidel in the term religion. These -very terms imply something granted, -which the objector in each case supposes -not granted. A moral philosophy is -only such because it assumes a principle -of morality, a will in man, and so a -Christian philosophy or theology has its -own assumptions resting on three ultimate -facts, namely, the reality of the -law of conscience; the existence of a -responsible will as the subject of that -law; and lastly, the existence of God.... -The first is a fact of consciousness; -the second, a fact of reason necessarily -concluded from the first; and the -third, a fact of history interpreted by -both.”</p> - -<p>These were the radical data of the religious -philosophy of Coleridge. They -imply a general conception of religion -which was revolutionary for his age, -simple and ancient as the principles are. -The evangelical tradition brought religion -to man from the outside. It took -no concern of man's spiritual constitution -beyond the fact that he was a sinner -and in danger of hell. Coleridge -started from a similar but larger experience, -including not only sin, but the -whole spiritual basis on which sin rests. -“I profess a deep conviction,” he -says, “that man is a fallen creature,” -“not by accident of bodily constitution -or any other cause, but as diseased in -his will—in that will which is the true -and only strict synonyme of the word I, -or the intelligent Self.” This “intelligent -Self” is a fundamental conception -lying at the root of his system of -thought. Sin is an attribute of it, and -cannot be conceived apart for it, and -conscience, or the original sense of right -and wrong governing the will. Apart -from these internal realities there is no -religion, and the function of the Christian -Revelation is to build up the -spiritual life out of these realities—to -remedy the evil, to enlighten the conscience, -to educate the will. This effective -power of religion comes directly from -God in Christ. Here Coleridge joins -the Evangelical School, as indeed every -school of living Christian Faith. This -was the element of Truth he found in -the doctrine of Election as handled -“practically, morally, humanly,” by -Leighton. Every true Christian, he -argues, must attribute his distinction -not in any degree to himself—“his own -resolves and strivings,” “his own will -and understanding,” still less to “his -own comparative excellence,”—but to -God, “the being in whom the promise -of life originated, and on whom its fulfilment -depends.” Election so far is a -truth of experience. “This the conscience -requires; this the highest interests -of morality demand.” So far it -is a question of facts with which the -speculative reason has nothing to do. -But when the theological reasoner abandons -the ground of fact and “the safe -circle of religion and practical reason -for the shifting sand-wastes and mirages -of speculative theology,” then he uses -words without meaning. He can have -no insight into the workings or plans -of a Being who is neither an object of -his senses nor a part of his self-consciousness.</p> - -<p>Nothing can show better than this -brief exposition how closely Coleridge in -his theology clung to a base of spiritual -experience, and sought to measure even -the most abstruse Christian mysteries by -facts. The same thing may be shown -by referring to his doctrine of the -Trinity, which has been supposed the -most transcendental and, so to speak, -“Neo-Platonist” of all his doctrines. -But truly speaking his Trinitarianism, -like his doctrine of Election, is a moral -rather than a speculative truth. The -Trinitarian idea was, indeed, true to him -notionally. The full analysis of the -notion “God” seemed to him to involve -it. “I find a certain notion in my -mind, and say that is what I understand -by the term God. From books and conversation -I find that the learned generally -connect the same notion with the -same word. I then apply the rules laid -down by the masters of logic for the -involution and evolution of terms, and -prove (to as many as agree with my -premisses) that the notion 'God' involves -the notion 'Trinity,'” So he -argued, and many times recurred to the -same Transcendental analysis. But the -truer and more urgent spiritual basis of -the doctrine of the Trinity, even to his -own mind, was not its notional but its -moral necessity. Christ could only be -a Saviour as being Divine. Salvation is -a Divine work. “The idea of redemption -involves belief in the Divinity of -our Lord. And our Lord's Divinity -again involves the Trinitarian idea, because -in and through this idea alone the -Divinity of Christ can be received without -breach of faith in the Unity of the -Godhead.” In other words, the best -evidence of the doctrine of the Trinity, -is the compulsion of the spiritual -conscience which demands a Divine -Saviour; and only in and through the -great idea of Trinity in Unity does this -demand become consistent with Christian -Monotheism.<a id="FNanchor_8_8" href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">8</a></p> - -<p>These doctrines are merely used in -illustration, as they are by Coleridge -himself in his <cite>Aids to Reflection</cite>. But -nothing can show in a stronger light the -general character of the change which -he wrought in the conception of Christianity. -From being a mere traditional -creed, with Anglican and Evangelical, -and it may be added Unitarian alike, it -became a living expression of the -spiritual consciousness. In a sense, of -course, it had always been so. The -Evangelical made much of its living -power, but only in a practical and not in -a rational sense. It is the distinction of -Coleridge to have once more in his age -made Christian doctrine alive to the -reason as well as the conscience—tenable -as a philosophy as well as an -evangel. And this he did by interpreting -Christianity in the light of our moral -and spiritual life. There are aspects of -Christian truth beyond us—<i lang="la">Exeunt in -mysteria</i>. But all Christian truth must -have vital touch with our spiritual being, -and be so far at least capable of being -rendered in its terms, or, in other words, -be conformable to reason.</p> - -<p>There was nothing absolutely new in -this luminous conception, but it marked -a revolution of religious thought in -the earlier part of our century. The -great principle of the Evangelical -theology was that theological dogmas -were true or false without any reference -to a subjective standard of judgment. -They were true as pure data of revelation, -or as the propositions of an authorised -creed settled long ago. Reason -had, so far, nothing to do with them. -Christian truth, it was supposed, lay at -had in the Bible, an appeal to which -settled everything. Coleridge did not -undervalue the Bible. He gave it an -intelligent reverence. But he no less -reverenced the spiritual consciousness -or divine light in man; and to put out -this light, as the Evangelical had gone -far to do, was to destroy all reasonable -faith. This must rest not merely -on objective data, but on internal experience. -It must have not merely -authority without, but <em>rationale</em> within. -It must answer to the highest aspiration -of human reason, as well as the -most urgent necessities of human life. -It must interpret reason and find expression -in the voice of our higher -humanity, and so enlarge itself as to -meet all its needs.</p> - -<p>If we turn for a moment to the special -exposition of the doctrines of sin and -redemption which Coleridge has given -in the <cite>Aids to Reflection</cite>, it is still mainly -with the view of bringing out more -clearly his general conception of Christianity -as a living movement of thought -rather than a mere series of articles or a -traditionary creed.</p> - -<p>In dealing first with the question of -sin, he shows how its very idea is only -tenable on the ground of such a spiritual -constitution in man as he has already -asserted. It is only the recognition of -a true will in man—a spirit or supernatural -in man, although “not necessarily -miraculous”—which renders sin -possible. “These views of the spirit -and of the will as spiritual,” he says -more than once, “are the groundwork -of my scheme.” There was nothing -more significant or fundamental in all -his theology. If there is not always a -supernatural element in man in the -shape of spirit and will, no miracles or -anything else can ever authenticate the -supernatural to him. A mere formal -orthodoxy, therefore, hanging upon the -evidence of miracles, is a suspension -bridge without any real support. So all -questions between infidelity and Christianity -are questions here, at the root, -and not what are called “critical” questions -as to whether this or that view of -the Bible be right, or this or that traditionary -dogma be true. Such questions -are, truly speaking, inter-Christian questions, -the freest views of which all -Churches must learn to tolerate. The -really vital question is whether there is -a divine root in man at all—a spiritual -centre, answering to a higher spiritual -centre in the universe. All controversies -of any importance come back to -this. Coleridge would have been a great -Christian thinker if for no other reason -than this, that he brought all theological -problems back to this living centre, and -showed how they diverged from it. -Apart from this postulate, sin was inconceivable -to him; and in the same -manner all sin was to him sin of origin -or “original sin.” It is the essential -property of the will that it can originate. -The phrase original sin is therefore -“a pleonasm.” If sin was not -original, or from within the will itself, -it would not deserve the name. “A -state or act that has not its origin in -the will may be a calamity, deformity, -disease, or mischief, but a sin it cannot -be.”</p> - -<p>Again he says: “That there is an evil -common to all is a fact, and this evil -must, therefore, have a common ground. -Now this evil ground cannot originate -in the Divine will; it must, therefore, -be referred to the will of man. And this -evil ground we call original sin. It is a -mystery, that is, a fact which we see, -but cannot explain; and the doctrine a -truth which we apprehend, but can -neither comprehend nor communicate. -And such by the quality of the subject -(namely, a responsible will) it must be, -if it be truth at all.”</p> - -<p>This inwardness is no less characteristic -of Coleridge's treatment of the doctrine -of atonement or redemption. It is -intelligible so far as it comes within the -range of spiritual experience. So far its -nature and effects are amply described -or figured in the New Testament, -especially by St. Paul. And the apostle's -language, as might be expected, -“takes its predominant colors from -his own experience, and the experience -of those whom he addressed.” “His -figures, images, analogies, and references,” -are all more or less borrowed -from this source. He describes the -Atonement of Christ under four principal -metaphors: 1. Sin-offering, sacrificial -expiation. 2. Reconciliation, -atonement, καταλλάγη. 3. Redemption, -or ransom from slavery. 4. Satisfaction, -payment of a debt. These -phrases are not designed to convey to us -all the Divine meaning of the atonement, -for no phrases or figures can do this; -but they set forth its general aspect -and design. One and all they have an -intelligible relation to our spiritual life, -and so clothe the doctrine for us with a -concrete living and practical meaning. -But there are other relations and aspects -of the doctrine of atonement that transcend -experience, and consequently our -powers of understanding. And all that -can be said here is, “exit in mysteria.” -The rationalism of Coleridge is at least -a modest and self-limiting rationalism. -It clears the ground within the range of -spiritual experience, and floods this -ground with the light of reason. There -is no true doctrine can contradict this -light, or shelter itself from its penetration. -But there are aspects of Christian -doctrine that outreach all grasp of reason, -and before which reason must simply -be silent. For example, the Divine -act in redemption is “a causative act—a -spiritual and transcendent mystery <em>that -passeth all understanding. 'Who knoweth -the mind of the Lord, or being his councillor -who hath instructed him?' Factum -est.</em>” This is all that can be said of the -mystery of redemption, or of the doctrine -of atonement on its Divine side.</p> - -<p>And here emerges another important -principle of the Coleridgian theology. -While so great an advocate of the -rights of reason in theology, of the -necessity, in other words, of moulding -all its facts in a synthesis intelligible to -the higher reason he recognises strongly -that there is a province of Divine truth -beyond all such construction. We can -never understand the fulness of Divine -mystery, and it is hopeless to attempt to -do so. While no mind was less agnostic -in the modern sense of the term, he -was yet with all his vivid and large intuition, -a Christian agnostic. Just because -Christianity was Divine, a revelation, -and not a mere human tradition, -all its higher doctrines ended in a region -beyond our clear knowledge. As he -himself said, “If the doctrine is more -than a hyperbolical phrase it must do -so.” There was great pregnancy in this -as in his other conceptions; and probably -no more significant change awaits -the theology of the future, than the -determination of this province of the -unknown, and the cessation of controversy, -as to matters which come within -it, and therefore admit of no dogmatic -settlement.</p> - -<p>(2.) But it is more than time to -turn to the second aspect, in which -Coleridge appears as a religious leader -of the thought of the nineteenth century. -The <cite>Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit</cite> -was not published till six years after -his death, in 1840; and it is curious to -notice their accidental connection with -the <cite>Confessions of a Beautiful Soul</cite>, -which had been translated by Carlyle -some years before.<a id="FNanchor_9_9" href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">9</a> These <cite>Confessions</cite>, -in the shape of seven letters to a friend, -gather together all that is valuable in -the Biblical criticism of the author scattered -through his various writings; and -although it may be doubtful whether the -volume has ever attained the circulation -of the <cite>Aids to Reflection</cite>, it is eminently -deserving—small as it is, nay, because -of its very brevity—of a place beside the -larger work. It is eminently readable, -terse and nervous, as well as eloquent in -style. In none of his writings does Coleridge -appear to greater advantage, or -touch a more elevating strain, rising at -times into solemn music.</p> - -<p>The <cite>Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit</cite> -were of course merely one indication of -the rise of a true spirit of criticism -in English theology. Arnold, Whately, -Thirlwall, and others, it will be seen, -were all astir in the same direction, even -before the <cite>Confessions</cite> were published. -The notion of verbal inspiration, or -the infallible dictation of Holy Scripture, -could not possibly continue after -the modern spirit of historical inquiry -had begun. As soon as men plainly -recognised the organic growth of all -great facts, literary as well as others, it -was inevitable that they should see the -Scriptures in a new light, as a product -of many phases of thought in course of -more or less perfect development. A -larger and more intelligent sense of the -conditions attending the origin and progress -of all civilisation, and of the immaturities -through which religious as -well as moral and social ideas advance, -necessarily carried with it a changed perception -of the characteristics of Scriptural -revelation. The old Rabbinical -notion of an infallible text was sure to -disappear. The new critical method -besides is, in Coleridge's hands, rather -an idea—a happy and germinant thought—than -a well-evolved system. Still to -him belongs the honor of having first -plainly and boldly announced that the -Scriptures were to be read and studied, -like any other literature, in the light of -their continuous growth, and the adaptation -of their parts to one another.</p> - -<p>The divinity of Scripture appears all -the more brightly, when thus freely -handled. “I take up the work,” he -says, “with the purpose to read it as I -should read any other work—so far as I -can or dare. For I neither can nor dare -throw off a strong and awful prepossession -in its favor, certain as I am that a -large part of the light and life in and by -which I see, love, and embrace the -truths and the strengths organised into -a living body of faith and knowledge -have been directly or indirectly derived -to me from the sacred volume.” All -the more reason why we should not -make a fetish of the Bible, as the Turk -does of the Koran. Poor as reason may -be in comparison with “the power and -splendor of the Scriptures,” yet it is and -must be for him a true light. “While -there is a Light higher than all, even the -<em>Word that was in the beginning</em>;—the -Light of which light itself is but the -Schechinah and cloudy tabernacle;—there -is also a 'Light that lighteth every -man that cometh into the world;' and -the spirit of man is declared to be 'the -candle of the Lord,'” “If between -this Word,” he says, “and the written -letter I shall anywhere seem to myself -to find a discrepance, I will not conclude -that such there actually is. Nor, -on the other hand, will I fall under the -condemnation of those that would <em>lie for -God</em>, but, seek as I may, be thankful for -what I have and wait.”</p> - -<p>Such is the keynote of the volume. -The supremacy of the Bible as a divinely -inspired literature is plainly recognised -from the first. Obviously it is a -book above all other books in which -deep answers to deep, and our inmost -thoughts and most hidden griefs find not -merely response, but guidance and -assuagement. And whatever there <em>finds</em> -us “bears witness for itself that it has -proceeded from the Holy Spirit.” “In -the Bible,” he says again, “there is -more that <em>finds</em> me than I have experienced -in all other books put together; -the words of the Bible find me at greater -depths of my being, and whatever finds -me brings with it an irresistible evidence -of its having proceeded from the Holy -Spirit.”</p> - -<p>But there is much in the Bible that -not only does not find us in the Coleridgian -sense, but that seems full of -contradictions, both moral and historical; -the psalms in which David curses -his enemies; the obviously exaggerated -ages attributed to the patriarchs; and -the incredible number of the armies said -to be collected by Abijah and Jeroboam -(2 Chron. xiii. 3), and other incidents -familiar to all students of Scripture. -What is to be made of such features of -the Bible? According to the old notion -of its infallibility such parts of Scripture, -no less than its most elevating utterances -of “lovely hymn and choral song and -accepted prayer of saint and prophet,” -were to be received as dictated by the -Holy Spirit. They were stamped with -the same Divine authority. Coleridge -rightly enough emphasises this view as -that of the fathers and reformers alike; -but he no less rightly points out that not -one of them is consistent in holding to -their general doctrine. Their treatment -of the Scriptures in detail constantly -implies the fallacy of the Rabbinical -tradition to which they yet clung. He -no less forcibly points out that the -Scriptures themselves make no such pretension -to infallibility, “explicitly or -by implication.” “On the contrary, -they refer to older documents, and on -all points express themselves as sober-minded -and veracious writers under -ordinary circumstances are known to -do.” The usual texts quoted, such as -2 Tim. iii. 16, have no real bearing on -the subject. The little we know as to -the origin and history of many of the -books of the Bible, of “the time of the -formation and closing of the canon,” -of its selectors and compilers, is all opposed -to such a theory. Moreover, -the very nature of the claim stultifies -itself when examined. For “how can -infallible truth be infallibly conveyed in -defective and fallible expression?”</p> - -<p>But if the tenet of verbal inspiration -has been so long received and acted on -“by Jew and Christian, Greek, Roman, -and Protestant, why can it not now -be received?” “For every reason,” -answered Coleridge, “that makes me -prize and revere these Scriptures;—prize -them, love them, revere them beyond -all other books.” Because such a -tenet “falsifies at once the whole body -of holy writ, with all its harmonious and -symmetrical gradations.” It turns -“the breathing organism into a colossal -Memnon's head, a hollow passage for a -voice,” which no man hath uttered, and -no human heart hath conceived. It -evacuates of all sense and efficacy the -fact that the Bible is a Divine literature -of many books, “composed in different -and widely distant ages under the -greatest diversity of circumstances and -degrees of light and information.” So -he argues in language I have partly -quoted and partly summarised. And -then he breaks forth into a magnificent -passage about the song of Deborah, a -passage of rare eloquence with all its -desultoriness, but which will hardly bear -separation from the context. The wail -of the Jewish heroine's maternal and -patriotic love is heard under all her -cursing and individualism—mercy rejoicing -against judgment. In the very -intensity of her primary affections is -found the rare strength of her womanhood; -and sweetness lies near to fierceness. -Such passages probably give us a -far better idea of the occasional glory of -the old man's talk as “he sat on the -brow of Highgate Hill,” than any poor -fragments of it that have been preserved. -Direct and to the point it may never -have been, but at times it rose into an -organ swell with snatches of unutterable -melody and power.</p> - -<p>(3.) But Coleridge contributed still -another factor to the impulsion of religious -thought in his time. He did much -to revive the historic idea of the Church -as an intellectual as well as a spiritual -commonwealth. Like many other ideas -of our older national life this had been -depressed and lost sight of during the -eighteenth century. The Evangelical -party, deficient in learning generally, -was especially deficient in breadth of -historical knowledge. Milner's History, -if nothing else, serves to point this -conclusion. The idea of the Church as -the mother of philosophy and arts and -learning, as well as the nurse of faith and -piety, was unknown. It was a part of -the Evangelical creed, moreover, to -leave aside as far as possible mere -political and intellectual interests. -These belonged to the world, and the -main business of the religious man was -with religion as a personal affair, of vast -moment, but outside all other affairs. -Coleridge helped once more to bring the -Church as he did the gospel into larger -room as a great spiritual power of manifold -influence.</p> - -<p>This volume <cite>On the Constitution of -Church and State according to the idea of -each</cite> was published in 1830, and was the -last volume which the author himself -published. The Catholic Emancipation -question had greatly excited the public -mind, and some friend had appealed to -Coleridge expressing astonishment that -he should be in opposition to the proposed -measure. He replied that he is -by no means unfriendly to Catholic -emancipation, while yet “scrupling the -means proposed for its attainment.” -And in order to explain his difficulties -he composed a long letter to his friend -which is really an essay or treatise, beginning -with the fundamental principles -of his philosophy and ending with a -description of antichrist. The essay is -one of the least satisfactory of his compositions -from a mere literary point of -view, and is not even mentioned by Mr. -Traill in his recent monograph. But -amidst all its involutions and ramblings -it is stimulating and full of thought on -a subject which almost more than any -other is liable to be degraded by unworthy -and sectarian treatment. Here, -as everywhere in Coleridge's writings, -we are brought in contact with certain -large conceptions which far more than -cover the immediate subject in hand.</p> - -<p>It has been sometimes supposed that -Coleridge's theory of the Church merely -revived the old theory of the Elizabethan -age so powerfully advocated by -Hooker and specially espoused by Dr. -Arnold in later times. According to -this theory the Church and State are -really identical, the Church being merely -the State in its educational and religious -aspect and organisation. But Coleridge's -special theory is different from -this, although allied to it. He distinguishes -the Christian Church as such -from any national church. The former -is spiritual and catholic, the latter institutional -and local. The former is opposed -to the “world,” the latter is an -estate of the realm. The former has -nothing to do with states and kingdoms. -It is in this respect identical with the -“spiritual and invisible church known -only to the Father of Spirits,” and the -compensating counterpoise of all that is -of the world. It is, in short, the Divine -aggregate of what is really Divine in all -Christian communities, and more or less -ideally represented “in every true -church.” A national church again is -the incorporation of all the learning and -knowledge—intellectual and spiritual—in -a country. Every nation in order to -its true health and civilisation requires -not only a land-owning or permanent -class along with a commercial, industrial, -and progressive class, but moreover, -an educative class to represent all -higher knowledge, “to guard the treasures -of past civilisation,” to bind the -national life together in its past, present, -and future, and to communicate to all -citizens a clear understanding of their -rights and duties. This third estate of -the realm Coleridge denominated the -“Clerisy,” and included not merely the -clergy, but, in his own language, “the -learned of all denominations.” The -knowledge, which it was their function -to cultivate and diffuse, embraced not -only theology, although this pre-eminently -as the head of all other knowledge, -but law, music, mathematics, the physical -sciences, “all the so-called liberal -arts and sciences, the possession and -cultivation of which constitute the civilisation -of a country.”</p> - -<p>This is at any rate a large conception -of a national church. It is put forth by -its author with all earnestness, although -he admitted that it had never been anywhere -realised. But it was his object -“to present the <em>Idea</em> of a national -church as the only safe criterion by which -we can judge of existing things.” It -was only when “we are in full and clear -possession of the ultimate aim of an institution” -that we can ascertain how far -“this aim has ever been attained in -other ways.”</p> - -<p>These, very briefly explained, are the -main lines along which Coleridge moved -the national mind in the third decade of -this century. They may seem to some -rather impalpable lines, and hardly calculated -to touch the general mind. But -they were influential, as the course of -Christian literature has since proved. -Like his own genius, they were diffusive -rather than concentrative. The Coleridgian -ideas permeated the general intellectual -atmosphere, modifying old conceptions -in criticism as well as theology, -deepening if not always clarifying the -channels of thought in many directions, -but especially in the direction of Christian -philosophy. They acted in this way -as a new circulation of spiritual air all -around, rather than in conveying any -new body of truth. The very ridicule -of Carlyle testifies to the influence which -they exercised over aspiring and younger -minds. The very emphasis with which -he repudiates the Coleridgian metaphysic -probably indicates that he had felt some -echo of it in his own heart.—<cite>Fortnightly -Review.</cite></p> - - - - - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2><a name="THE_PORTRAIT" id="THE_PORTRAIT">THE PORTRAIT.</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap"><small>A Story of the Seen and the Unseen</small>.</span></h2> - - -<p>At the period when the following incidents -occurred I was living with my -father at The Grove, a large old house -in the immediate neighborhood of a little -town. This had been his home for -a number of years; and I believe I was -born in it. It was a kind of house -which, notwithstanding all the red and -white architecture, known at present by -the name of Queen Anne, builders nowadays -have forgotten how to build. It -was straggling and irregular, with wide -passages, wide staircases, broad landings; -the rooms large but not very lofty; -the arrangements leaving much to be -desired, with no economy of space; a -house belonging to a period when land -was cheap, and, so far as that was concerned, -there was no occasion to economise. -Though it was so near the town, -the clump of trees in which it was environed -was a veritable grove. In the -grounds in spring the primroses grew as -thickly as in the forest. We had a few -fields for the cows, and an excellent -walled garden. The place is being -pulled down at this moment to make -room for more streets of mean little -houses,—the kind of thing, and not a -dull house of faded gentry, which perhaps -the neighborhood requires. The -house was dull, and so were we, its last -inhabitants; and the furniture was -faded, even a little dingy,—nothing to -brag of. I do not, however, intend to -convey a suggestion that we were faded -gentry, for that was not the case. My -father, indeed, was rich, and had no -need to spare any expense in making his -life and his house bright if he pleased; -but he did not please, and I had not -been long enough at home to exercise -any special influence of my own. It was -the only home I had ever known; but -except in my earliest childhood, and in -my holidays as a schoolboy, I had in -reality known but little of it. My -mother had died at my birth, or shortly -after, and I had grown up in the gravity -and silence of a house without women. -In my infancy, I believe, a sister of my -father's had lived with us, and taken -charge of the household and of me; but -she, too, had died long, long ago, my -mourning for her being one of the first -things I could recollect. And she had -no successor. There was, indeed, a -housekeeper and some maids,—the latter -of whom I only saw disappearing at the -end of a passage, or whisking out of a -room when one of “the gentlemen” appeared. -Mrs. Weir, indeed, I saw -nearly every day; but a curtsey, a smile, -a pair of nice round arms which she -caressed while folding them across her -ample waist, and a large white apron, -were all I knew of her. This was the -only female influence in the house. The -drawing-room I was aware of only as a -place of deadly good order, into which -nobody ever entered. It had three long -windows opening on the lawn, and communicated -at the upper end, which was -rounded like a great bay, with the conservatory. -Sometimes I gazed into it as -a child from without, wondering at the -needlework on the chairs, the screens, -the looking-glasses which never reflected -any living face. My father did not like -the room, which probably was not wonderful, -though it never occurred to me in -those early days to inquire why.</p> - -<p>I may say here, though it will probably -be disappointing to those who form -a sentimental idea of the capabilities of -children, that it did not occur to me -either, in these early days, to make any -inquiry about my mother. There was -no room in life, as I knew it, for any -such person; nothing suggested to my -mind either the fact that she must have -existed, or that there was need of her in -the house. I accepted, as I believe -most children do, the facts of existence, -on the basis with which I had first made -acquaintance with them, without question -or remark. As a matter of fact, I -was aware that it was rather dull at -home; but neither by comparison with -the books I read, nor by the communications -received from my school-fellows, -did this seem to me anything remarkable. -And I was possibly somewhat -dull too by nature, for I did not mind. -I was fond of reading, and for that there -was unbounded opportunity. I had a -little ambition in respect to work, and -that too could be prosecuted undisturbed. -When I went to the university, -my society lay almost entirely among -men; but by that time and afterwards, -matters had of course greatly changed -with me, and though I recognised women -as part of the economy of nature, and -did not indeed by any means dislike or -avoid them, yet the idea of connecting -them at all with my own home never -entered into my head. That continued -to be as it had always been, when at intervals -I descended upon the cool, grave, -colorless place, in the midst of my traffic -with the world; always very still, well-ordered, -serious—the cooking very good, -the comfort perfect—old Morphew, the -butler, a little older (but very little -older, perhaps on the whole less old, -since in my childhood I had thought -him a kind of Methuselah), and Mrs. -Weir, less active, covering up her arms -in sleeves, but folding and caressing -them just as always. I remember looking -in from the lawn through the windows -upon that deadly-orderly drawing-room, -with a humorous recollection of -my childish admiration and wonder, -and feeling that it must be kept so forever -and ever, and that to go into it -would break some sort of amusing mock -mystery, some pleasantly ridiculous -spell.</p> - -<p>But it was only at rare intervals that -I went home. In the long vacation, as -in my school holidays, my father often -went abroad with me, so that we had -gone over a great deal of the Continent -together very pleasantly. He was old in -proportion to the age of his son, being -a man of sixty when I was twenty, but -that did not disturb the pleasure of the -relations between us. I don't know -that they were ever very confidential. -On my side there was but little to communicate, -for I did not get into scrapes -nor fall in love, the two predicaments -which demand sympathy and confidences. -And as for my father himself, -I was never aware what there could be -to communicate on his side. I knew -his life exactly—what he did almost at -every hour of the day; under what circumstances -of the temperature he would -ride and when walk; how often and -with what guests he would indulge in -the occasional break of a dinner-party, a -serious pleasure—perhaps, indeed, less a -pleasure than a duty. All this I knew -as well as he did, and also his views on -public matters, his political opinions, -which naturally were different from -mine. What ground, then, remained -for confidence? I did not know any. -We were both of us of a reserved nature, -not apt to enter into our religious feelings, -for instance. There are many -people who think reticence on such subjects -a sign of the most reverential way -of contemplating them. Of this I am -far from being sure; but, at all events, -it was the practice most congenial to my -own mind.</p> - -<p>And then I was for a long time absent, -making my own way in the world. I -did not make it very successfully. I -accomplished the natural fate of an Englishman, -and went out to the Colonies; -then to India in a semi-diplomatic position; -but returned home after seven or -eight years, invalided, in bad health and -not much better spirits, tired and disappointed -with my first trial of life. I -had, as people say, “no occasion” to -insist on making my way. My father -was rich, and had never given me the -slightest reason to believe that he did -not intend me to be his heir. His allowance -to me was not illiberal, and though -he did not oppose the carrying out of -my own plans, he by no means urged -me to exertion. When I came home he -received me very affectionately, and expressed -his satisfaction in my return. -“Of course,” he said, “I am not glad -that you are disappointed, Philip, or -that your health is broken; but otherwise -it is an ill wind, you know, that -blows nobody good—and I am very glad -to have you at home. I am growing an -old man—”</p> - -<p>“I don't see any difference, sir,” said -I; “everything here seems exactly the -same as when I went away—”</p> - -<p>He smiled, and shook his head. “It -is true enough,” he said, “after we -have reached a certain age we seem to -go on for a long time on a plane, and -feel no great difference from year to -year; but it is an inclined plane—and -the longer we go on, the more sudden -will be the fall at the end. But at all -events it will be a great comfort to me -to have you here.”</p> - -<p>“If I had known that,” I said, “and -that you wanted me, I should have come -in any circumstances. As there are -only two of us in the world—”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he said, “there are only two -of us in the world; but still I should -not have sent for you, Phil, to interrupt -your career.”</p> - -<p>“It is as well, then, that it has interrupted -itself,” I said, rather bitterly; -for disappointment is hard to hear.</p> - -<p>He patted me on the shoulder and repeated, -“It is an ill wind that blows nobody -good,” with a look of real pleasure -which gave me a certain gratification -too; for, after all, he was an old man, -and the only one in all the world to -whom I owed any duty. I had not -been without dreams of warmer affections, -but they had come to nothing—not -tragically, but in the ordinary way. -I might perhaps have had love which I -did not want, but not that which I did -want,—which was not a thing to make -any unmanly moan about, but in the ordinary -course of events. Such disappointments -happen every day; indeed, -they are more common than anything -else, and sometimes it is apparent afterward -that it is better it was so.</p> - -<p>However, here I was at thirty stranded—yet -wanting for nothing, in a position -to call forth rather envy than pity -from the greater part of my contemporaries,—for -I had an assured and comfortable -existence, as much money as -I wanted, and the prospect of an excellent -fortune for the future. On the -other hand, my health was still low, and -I had no occupation. The neighborhood -of the town was a drawback rather -than an advantage. I felt myself tempted, -instead of taking the long walk into -the country which my doctor recommended, -to take a much shorter one -through the High Street, across the -river, and back again, which was not a -walk but a lounge. The country was -silent and full of thoughts—thoughts -not always very agreeable—whereas -there were always the humors of the little -urban population to glance at, the -news to be heard, all those petty matters -which so often make up life in a -very impoverished version for the idle -man. I did not like it, but I felt myself -yielding to it, not having energy -enough to make a stand. The rector -and the leading lawyer of the place -asked me to dinner. I might have -glided into the society, such as it was, -had I been disposed for that—everything -about me began to close over me -as if I had been fifty, and fully contented -with my lot.</p> - -<p>It was possibly my own want of occupation -which made me observe with surprise, -after a while, how much occupied -my father was. He had expressed himself -glad of my return; but now that I -had returned, I saw very little of him. -Most of his time was spent in his library, -as had always been the case. But on -the few visits I paid him there, I could -not but perceive that the aspect of the -library was much changed. It had acquired -the look of a business-room, almost -an office. There were large business-like -books on the table, which I -could not associate with anything he -could naturally have to do; and his correspondence -was very large. I thought -he closed one of those books hurriedly -as I came in, and pushed it away, as if -he did not wish me to see it. This surprised -me at the moment, without arousing -any other feeling; but afterward I -remembered it with a clearer sense of -what it meant. He was more absorbed -altogether than I had been used to see -him. He was visited by men sometimes -not of very prepossessing appearance. -Surprise grew in my mind without any -very distinct idea of the reason of it; -and it was not till after a chance conversation -with Morphew that my vague -uneasiness began to take definite shape. -It was begun without any special intention -on my part. Morphew had informed -me that master was very busy, -on some occasion when I wanted to see -him. And I was a little annoyed to be -thus put off. “It appears to me that -my father is always busy,” I said, hastily. -Morphew then began very oracularly -to nod his head in assent.</p> - -<p>“A deal too busy, sir, if you take my -opinion,” he said.</p> - -<p>This startled me much, and I asked -hurriedly, “What do you mean?” without -reflecting that to ask for private information -from a servant about my father's -habits was as bad as investigating -into a stranger's affairs. It did not strike -me in the same light.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Philip,” said Morphew, “a -thing 'as 'appened as 'appens more often -than it ought to. Master has got awful -keen about money in his old age.”</p> - -<p>“That's a new thing for him,” I said.</p> - -<p>“No, sir, begging your pardon, it -ain't a new thing. He was once broke -of it, and that wasn't easy done; but -it's come back, if you'll excuse me saying -so. And I don't know as he'll ever -be broke of it again at his age.”</p> - -<p>I felt more disposed to be angry than -disturbed by this. “You must be making -some ridiculous mistake,” I said. -“And if you were not so old a friend as -you are, Morphew, I should not have -allowed my father to be so spoken of to -me.”</p> - -<p>The old man gave me a half-astonished, -half-contemptuous look. “He's -been my master a deal longer than he's -been your father,” he said, turning on -his heel. The assumption was so comical -that my anger could not stand in -face of it. I went out, having been on -my way to the door when this conversation -occurred, and took my usual lounge -about, which was not a satisfactory sort -of amusement. Its vanity and emptiness -appeared to be more evident than -usual to-day. I met half a dozen people -I knew, and had as many pieces of -news confided to me. I went up and -down the length of the High Street. I -made a small purchase or two. And -then I turned homeward—despising myself, -yet finding no alternative within my -reach. Would a long country walk -have been more virtuous?—it would at -least have been more wholesome—but -that was all that could be said. My -mind did not dwell on Morphew's communication. -It seemed without sense -or meaning to me; and after the excellent -joke about his superior interest in -his master to mine in my father, was -dismissed lightly enough from my mind. -I tried to invent some way of telling this -to my father without letting him perceive -that Morphew had been finding -faults in him, or I listening; for it -seemed a pity to lose so good a joke. -However, as I returned home, something -happened which put the joke entirely -out of my head. It is curious -when a new subject of trouble or anxiety -has been suggested to the mind in an -unexpected way, how often a second -advertisement follows immediately after -the first, and gives to that a potency -which in itself it had not possessed.</p> - -<p>I was approaching our own door, -wondering whether my father had gone, -and whether, on my return, I should -find him at leisure—for I had several -little things to say to him—when I noticed -a poor woman lingering about the -closed gates. She had a baby sleeping -in her arms. It was a spring night, the -stars shining in the twilight, and everything -soft and dim; and the woman's -figure was like a shadow, flitting about, -now here, now there, on one side or another -of the gate. She stopped when -she saw me approaching, and hesitated -for a moment, then seemed to take a -sudden resolution. I watched her without -knowing, with a prevision that she -was going to address me, though with -no sort of idea as to the subject of her -address. She came up to me doubtfully, -it seemed, yet certainly, as I felt, and -when she was close to me, dropped a -sort of hesitating curtsey, and said, “It's -Mr. Philip?” in a low voice.</p> - -<p>“What do you want with me?” I said.</p> - -<p>Then she poured forth suddenly, without -warning or preparation, her long -speech—a flood of words which must -have been all ready and waiting at the -doors of her lips for utterance. “Oh, -sir, I want to speak to you! I can't -believe you'll be so hard, for you're -young; and I can't believe he'll be so -hard if so be as his own son, as I've always -heard he had but one, 'll speak up -for us. Oh, gentleman, it is easy for -the likes of you, that, if you ain't comfortable -in one room, can just walk into -another; but if one room is all you -have, and every bit of furniture you -have taken out of it, and nothing but -the four walls left—not so much as the -cradle for the child, or a chair for your -man to sit down upon when he comes -from his work, or a saucepan to cook -him his supper—”</p> - -<p>“My good woman,” I said, “who -can have taken all that from you? surely -nobody can be so cruel?”</p> - -<p>“You say it's cruel!” she cried with -a sort of triumph. “Oh, I knowed you -would, or any true gentleman that don't -hold with screwing poor folks. Just go -and say that to him inside there, for the -love of God. Tell him to think what -he's doing, driving poor creatures to despair. -Summer's coming, the Lord be -praised, but yet it's bitter cold at night -with your counterpane gone; and when -you've been working hard all day, and -nothing but four bare walls to come -home to, and all your poor little sticks -of furniture that you've saved up for, -and got together one by one, all gone—and -you no better than when you started, -or rather worse, for then you was -young. Oh, sir!” the woman's voice -rose into a sort of passionate wail. And -then she added, beseechingly, recovering -herself—“Oh, speak for us—he'll -not refuse his own son—”</p> - -<p>“To whom am I to speak? who is it -that has done this to you?” I said.</p> - -<p>The woman hesitated again, looking -keenly in my face—then repeated with a -slight faltering, “It's Mr. Philip?” as -if that made everything right.</p> - -<p>“Yes; I am Philip Canning,” I said; -“but what have I to do with this? and -to whom am I to speak?”</p> - -<p>She began to whimper, crying and -stopping herself. “Oh, please, sir! it's -Mr. Canning as owns all the house -property about—it's him that our court -and the lane and everything belongs to. -And he's taken the bed from under us, -and the baby's cradle, although it's said -in the Bible as you're not to take poor -folks's bed.”</p> - -<p>“My father!” I cried in spite of myself—“then -it must be some agent, -some one else in his name. You may -be sure he knows nothing of it. Of -course I shall speak to him at once.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, God bless you, sir,” said the -woman. But then she added, in a lower -tone—“It's no agent. It's one as -never knows trouble. It's him that -lives in that grand house.” But this -was said under her breath, evidently not -for me to hear.</p> - -<p>Morphew's words flashed through my -mind as she spoke. What was this? -Did it afford an explanation of the much -occupied hours, the big books, the -strange visitors? I took the poor woman's -name, and gave her something to -procure a few comforts for the night, -and went indoors disturbed and troubled. -It was impossible to believe that my -father himself would have acted thus; -but he was not a man to brook interference, -and I did not see how to introduce -the subject, what to say. I could but -hope that, at the moment of broaching -it, words would be put into my mouth, -which often happens in moments of necessity, -one knows not how, even when -one's theme is not so all-important as -that for which such help has been promised. -As usual, I did not see my father -till dinner. I have said that our dinners -were very good, luxurious in a simple -way, everything excellent in its kind, -well cooked, well served, the perfection -of comfort without show—which is a -combination very dear to the English -heart. I said nothing till Morphew, -with his solemn attention to everything -that was going, had retired—and then it -was with some strain of courage that I -began.</p> - -<p>“I was stopped outside the gate to-day -by a curious sort of petitioner—a -poor woman, who seems to be one of -your tenants, sir, but whom your agent -must have been rather too hard upon.”</p> - -<p>“My agent? who is that?” said my -father, quietly.</p> - -<p>“I don't know his name, and I doubt -his competence. The poor creature -seems to have had everything taken from -her—her bed, her child's cradle.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt she was behind with her -rent.”</p> - -<p>“Very likely, sir. She seemed very -poor,” said I.</p> - -<p>“You take it coolly,” said my father, -with an upward glance, half-amused, not -in the least shocked by my statement. -“But when a man, or a woman either, -takes a house, I suppose you will allow -that they ought to pay rent for it.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, sir,” I replied, “when -they have got anything to pay.”</p> - -<p>“I don't allow the reservation,” he -said. But he was not angry, which I -had feared he would be.</p> - -<p>“I think,” I continued, “that your -agent must be too severe. And this -emboldens me to say something which -has been in my mind for some time”—(these -were the words, no doubt, which -I had hoped would be put into my -mouth; they were the suggestion of the -moment, and yet as I said them it was -with the most complete conviction of -their truth)—“and that is this: I am -doing nothing; my time hangs heavy -on my hands. Make me your agent. I -will see for myself, and save you from -such mistakes; and it will be an occupation—”</p> - -<p>“Mistakes? What warrant have you -for saying these are mistakes?” he said -testily; then after a moment: “This is -a strange proposal from you, Phil. Do -you know what it is you are offering?—to -be a collector of rents, going about -from door to door, from week to week; -to look after wretched little bits of repairs, -drains, etc.; to get paid, which, -after all, is the chief thing, and not to -be taken in by tales of poverty.”</p> - -<p>“Not to let you be taken in by men -without pity,” I said.</p> - -<p>He gave me a strange glance, which I -did not very well understand, and said, -abruptly, a thing which, so far as I remember, -he had never in my life said -before, “You've become a little like -your mother, Phil—”</p> - -<p>“My mother!” The reference was -so unusual—nay, so unprecedented—that -I was greatly startled. It seemed -to me like the sudden introduction of a -quite new element in the stagnant atmosphere, -as well as a new party to our -conversation. My father looked across -the table, as if with some astonishment -at my tone of surprise.</p> - -<p>“Is that so very extraordinary?” he -said.</p> - -<p>“No; of course it is not extraordinary -that I should resemble my mother. -Only—I have heard very little of her—almost -nothing.”</p> - -<p>“That is true.” He got up and -placed himself before the fire, which was -very low, as the night was not cold—had -not been cold heretofore at least; but it -seemed to me now that a little chill came -into the dim and faded room. Perhaps -it looked more dull from the suggestion -of a something brighter, warmer, that -might have been. “Talking of mistakes,” -he said, “perhaps that was -one: to sever you entirely from her side -of the house. But I did not care for -the connection. You will understand -how it is that I speak of it now when I -tell you—” He stopped here, however, -said nothing more for a minute or so, -and then rang the bell. Morphew came, -as he always did, very deliberately, so -that some time elapsed in silence, during -which my surprise grew. When the -old man appeared at the door—“Have -you put the lights in the drawing-room, -as I told you?” my father said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir; and opened the box, sir; -and it's a—it's a speaking likeness—”</p> - -<p>This the old man got out in a great -hurry, as if afraid that his master would -stop him. My father did so with a -wave of his hand.</p> - -<p>“That's enough. I asked no information. -You can go now.”</p> - -<p>The door closed upon us, and there -was again a pause. My subject had -floated away altogether like a mist, -though I had been so concerned about -it. I tried to resume, but could not. -Something seemed to arrest my very -breathing: and yet in this dull respectable -house of ours, where everything -breathed good character and integrity, -it was certain that there could be no -shameful mystery to reveal. It was -some time before my father spoke, not -from any purpose that I could see, but -apparently because his mind was busy -with probably unaccustomed thoughts.</p> - -<p>“You scarcely know the drawing-room, -Phil,” he said at last.</p> - -<p>“Very little. I have never seen it -used. I have a little awe of it, to tell -the truth.”</p> - -<p>“That should not be. There is no -reason for that. But a man by himself, -as I have been for the greater part of -my life, has no occasion for a drawing-room. -I always, as a matter of preference, -sat among my books; however, I -ought to have thought of the impression -on you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is not important,” I said; -“the awe was childish. I have not -thought of it since I came home.”</p> - -<p>“It never was anything very splendid -at the best,” said he. He lifted the -lamp from the table with a sort of abstraction, -not remarking even my offer -to take it from him, and led the way. -He was on the verge of seventy, and -looked his age; but it was a vigorous -age, with no symptoms of giving way. -The circle of light from the lamp lit up -his white hair, and keen blue eyes, and -clear complexion; his forehead was like -old ivory, his cheek warmly colored: -an old man, yet a man in full strength. -He was taller than I was, and still almost -as strong. As he stood for a moment -with the lamp in his hand, he looked -like a tower in his great height and bulk. -I reflected as I looked at him that I -knew him intimately, more intimately -than any other creature in the world,—I -was familiar with every detail of his outward -life; could it be that in reality I -did not know him at all?</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The drawing-room was already lighted -with a flickering array of candles upon -the mantelpiece and along the walls, -producing the pretty starry effect which -candles give without very much light. -As I had not the smallest idea what I -was about to see, for Morphew's “speaking -likeness” was very hurriedly said, -and only half comprehensible in the bewilderment -of my faculties, my first -glance was at this very unusual illumination, -for which I could assign no reason. -The next showed me a large full-length -portrait, still in the box in which -apparently it had travelled, placed upright, -supported against a table in the -centre of the room. My father walked -straight up to it, motioned to me to -place a smaller table close to the picture -on the left side, and put his lamp upon -that. Then he waved his hand towards -it, and stood aside that I might see.</p> - -<p>It was a full-length portrait of a very -young woman—I might say, a girl, -scarcely twenty—in a white dress, made -in a very simple old fashion, though I -was too little accustomed to female costume -to be able to fix the date. It -might have been a hundred years old, -or twenty, for aught I knew. The face -had an expression of youth, candor, -and simplicity more than any face I had -ever seen—or so, at least, in my surprise, -I thought. The eyes were a little -wistful, with something which was almost -anxiety—which at least was not -content—in them; a faint, almost imperceptible, -curve in the lids. The -complexion was of a dazzling fairness, -the hair light, but the eyes dark, which -gave individuality to the face. It would -have been as lovely had the eyes been -blue—probably more so—but their darkness -gave a touch of character, a slight -discord, which made the harmony finer. -It was not, perhaps, beautiful in the -highest sense of the word. The girl -must have been too young, too slight, -too little developed for actual beauty; -but a face which so invited love and -confidence I never saw. One smiled at -it with instinctive affection. “What a -sweet face!” I said. “What a lovely -girl! Who is she? Is this one of the -relations you were speaking of on the -other side?”</p> - -<p>My father made me no reply. He -stood aside, looking at it as if he knew -it too well to require to look,—as if the -picture was already in his eyes. “Yes,” -he said, after an interval, with a long-drawn -breath, “she was a lovely girl, as -you say.”</p> - -<p>“Was?—then she is dead. What a -pity!” I said; “what a pity! so young -and so sweet!”</p> - -<p>We stood gazing at her thus, in her -beautiful stillness and calm—two men, -the younger of us full grown and conscious -of many experiences, the other -an old man—before this impersonation -of tender youth. At length he said, -with a slight tremulousness in his voice, -“Does nothing suggest to you who she -is, Phil?”</p> - -<p>I turned round to look at him with -profound astonishment, but he turned -away from my look. A sort of quiver -passed over his face. “That is your -mother,” he said, and walked suddenly -away, leaving me there.</p> - -<p>My mother!</p> - -<p>I stood for a moment in a kind of -consternation before the white-robed innocent -creature, to me no more than a -child; then a sudden laugh broke from -me, without any will of mine: something -ludicrous, as well as something -awful, was in it. When the laugh was -over, I found myself with tears in my -eyes, gazing, holding my breath. The -soft features seemed to melt, the lips to -move, the anxiety in the eyes to become -a personal inquiry. Ah, no! nothing -of the kind; only because of the water -in mine. My mother! oh, fair and -gentle creature, scarcely woman—how -could any man's voice call her by that -name! I had little idea enough of what -it meant,—had heard it laughed at, -scoffed at, reverenced, but never had -learned to place it even among the ideal -powers of life. Yet, if it meant anything -at all, what it meant was worth -thinking of. What did she ask, looking -at me with those eyes? what would -she have said if “those lips had language”? -If I had known her only as -Cowper did—with a child's recollection—there -might have been some thread, -some faint but comprehensible link, between -us; but now all that I felt was -the curious incongruity. Poor child! I -said to myself; so sweet a creature: -poor little tender soul! as if she had -been a little sister, a child of mine—but -my mother! I cannot tell how long I -stood looking at her, studying the candid, -sweet face, which surely had germs -in it of everything that was good and -beautiful; and sorry, with a profound -regret, that she had died and never carried -these promises to fulfilment. Poor -girl! poor people who had loved her! -These were my thoughts: with a curious -vertigo and giddiness of my whole -being in the sense of a mysterious relationship, -which it was beyond my power -to understand.</p> - -<p>Presently my father came back: possibly -because I had been a long time unconscious -of the passage of the minutes, -or perhaps because he was himself restless -in the strange disturbance of his -habitual calm. He came in and put his -arm within mine, leaning his weight -partially upon me, with an affectionate -suggestion which went deeper than -words. I pressed his arm to my side: -it was more between us two grave Englishmen -than any embracing.</p> - -<p>“I cannot understand it,” I said.</p> - -<p>“No. I don't wonder at that; but -if it is strange to you, Phil, think how -much more strange to me! That is the -partner of my life. I have never had -another—or thought of another. That—girl! -If we are to meet again, as I -have always hoped we should meet -again, what am I to say to her—I, an -old man? Yes; I know what you -mean. I am not an old man for my -years; but my years are threescore and -ten, and the play is nearly played out. -How am I to meet that young creature? -We used to say to each other that it was -forever, that we never could be but one, -that it was for life and death. But -what—what am I to say to her, Phil, -when I meet her again, that—that angel? -No, it is not her being an angel that -troubles me; but she is so young! She -is like my—my granddaughter,” he -cried, with a burst of what was half -sobs, half laughter; “and she is my -wife—and I am an old man—an old -man! And so much has happened that -she could not understand.”</p> - -<p>I was too much startled by this strange -complaint to know what to say. It was -not my own trouble, and I answered it -in the conventional way.</p> - -<p>“They are not as we are, sir,” I -said; “they look upon us with larger, -other eyes than ours.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! you don't know what I mean,” -he said quickly; and in the interval he -had subdued his emotion. “At first, -after she died, it was my consolation to -think that I should meet her again—that -we never could be really parted. But, -my God, how I have changed since -then! I am another man—I am a different -being. I was not very young -even then—twenty years older than she -was: but her youth renewed mine. I -was not an unfit partner; she asked no -better: and knew as much more than I -did in some things—being so much nearer -the source—as I did in others that were -of the world. But I have gone a long -way since then, Phil—a long way; and -there she stands just where I left her.”</p> - -<p>I pressed his arm again. “Father,” -I said, which was a title I seldom used, -“we are not to suppose that in a higher -life the mind stands still.” I did not -feel myself qualified to discuss such -topics, but something one must say.</p> - -<p>“Worse, worse!” he replied; “then -she too will be like me, a different being, -and we shall meet as what? as -strangers, as people who have lost sight -of each other, with a long past between -us—we who parted, my God! with—with——”</p> - -<p>His voice broke and ended for a moment: -then while, surprised and almost -shocked by what he said, I cast about -in my mind what to reply, he withdrew -his arm suddenly from mine, and said -in his usual tone, “Where shall we hang -the picture, Phil? It must be here in -this room. What do you think will be -the best light?”</p> - -<p>This sudden alteration took me still -more by surprise, and gave me almost -an additional shock; but it was evident -that I must follow the changes of his -mood, or at least the sudden repression -of sentiment which he originated. We -went into that simpler question with -great seriousness, consulting which -would be the best light. “You know I -can scarcely advise,” I said; “I have -never been familiar with this room. I -should like to put off, if you don't mind, -till daylight.”</p> - -<p>“I think,” he said, “that this would -be the best place.” It was on the other -side of the fireplace, on the wall which -faced the windows—not the best light, I -knew enough to be aware, for an oil-painting. -When I said so, however, he -answered me with a little impatience,—“It -does not matter very much about, -the best light. There will be nobody -to see it but you and me. I have my -reasons——” There was a small table -standing against the wall at this spot, -on which he had his hand as he spoke. -Upon it stood a little basket in very fine -lace-like wickerwork. His hand must -have trembled, for the table shook, and -the basket fell, its contents turning out -upon the carpet,—little bits of needlework, -colored silks, a small piece of knitting -half done. He laughed as they -rolled out at his feet, and tried to stoop -to collect them, then tottered to a chair, -and covered for a moment his face with -his hands.</p> - -<p>No need to ask what they were. No -woman's work had been seen in the -house since I could recollect it. I -gathered them up reverently and put -them back. I could see, ignorant as I -was, that the bit of knitting was something -for an infant. What could I do -less than put it to my lips? It had. -been left in the doing—for me.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I think this is the best place,” -my father said a minute after, in his -usual tone.</p> - -<p>We placed it there that evening with -our own hands. The picture was large, -and in a heavy frame, but my father -would let no one help me but himself. -And then, with a superstition for which -I never could give any reason even to -myself, having removed the packings, -we closed and locked the door, leaving -the candles about the room, in their soft -strange illumination lighting the first -night of her return to her old place.</p> - -<p>That night no more was said. My -father went to his room early, which was -not his habit. He had never, however, -accustomed me to sit late with him in -the library. I had a little study or -smoking-room of my own, in which all -my special treasures were, the collections -of my travels and my favorite books—and -where I always sat after prayers, a -ceremonial which was regularly kept up -in the house. I retired as usual this -night to my room, and as usual read—but -to-night somewhat vaguely, often -pausing to think. When it was quite -late, I went out by the glass door to the -lawn, and walked round the house, with -the intention of looking in at the drawing-room -windows, as I had done when -a child. But I had forgotten that these -windows were all shuttered at night, and -nothing but a faint penetration of the -light within through the crevices bore -witness to the instalment of the new -dweller there.</p> - -<p>In the morning my father was entirely -himself again. He told me without -emotion of the manner in which he had -obtained the picture. It had belonged -to my mother's family, and had fallen -eventually into the hands of a cousin of -hers, resident abroad—“A man whom -I did not like, and who did not like -me,” my father said; “there was, or -had been, some rivalry, he thought: a -mistake, but he was never aware of -that. He refused all my requests to -have a copy made. You may suppose, -Phil, that I wished this very much. -Had I succeeded, you would have been -acquainted, at least, with your mother's -appearance, and need not have sustained -this shock. But he would not consent. -It gave him, I think, a certain pleasure -to think that he had the only picture. -But now he is dead—and out of remorse, -or with some other intention, has left it -to me.”</p> - -<p>“That looks like kindness,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Yes; or something else. He might -have thought that by so doing he was -establishing a claim upon me.” my father -said: but he did not seem disposed -to add any more. On whose behalf he -meant to establish a claim I did not -know, nor who the man was who had -laid us under so great an obligation on -his deathbed. He <em>had</em> established a -claim on me at least: though, as he was -dead, I could not see on whose behalf it -was. And my father said nothing more. -He seemed to dislike the subject. When -I attempted to return to it, he had recourse -to his letters or his newspapers. -Evidently he had made up his mind to -say no more.</p> - -<p>Afterwards I went into the drawing-room -to look at the picture once more. -It seemed to me that the anxiety in her -eyes was not so evident as I had thought -it last night. The light possibly was -more favorable. She stood just above -the place where, I make no doubt, she -had sat in life, where her little work-basket -was—not very much above it. -The picture was full-length, and we had -hung it low, so that she might have -been stepping into the room, and was -little above my own level as I stood and -looked at her again. Once more I -smiled at the strange thought that this -young creature, so young, almost childish, -could be my mother; and once -more my eyes grew wet looking at her. -He was a benefactor, indeed, who had -given her back to us. I said to myself, -that if I could ever do anything for -him or his, I would certainly do, for -my—for this lovely young creature's -sake.</p> - -<p>And with this in my mind, and all the -thoughts that came with it, I am obliged -to confess that the other matter, which -I had been so full of on the previous -night, went entirely out of my head.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It is rarely, however, that such matters -are allowed to slip out of one's -mind. When I went out in the afternoon -for my usual stroll—or rather when -I returned from that stroll—I saw once -more before me the woman with her -baby whose story had filled me with dismay -on the previous evening. She was -waiting at the gate as before, and—“Oh, -gentleman, but haven't you got -some news to give me?” she said.</p> - -<p>“My good woman—I—have been -greatly occupied. I have had—no time -to do anything.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” she said, with a little cry of -disappointment, “my man said not to -make too sure, and that the ways of the -gentlefolks is hard to know.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot explain to you,” I said, as -gently as I could, “what it is that has -made me forget you. It was an event -that can only do you good in the end. -Go home now, and see the man that -took your things from you, and tell him -to come to me. I promise you it shall -be put right.”</p> - -<p>The woman looked at me in astonishment, -then burst forth, as it seemed, involuntarily,—“What! -without asking -no questions?” After this there came -a storm of tears and blessings, from -which I made haste to escape, but not -without carrying that curious commentary -on my rashness away with me—“Without -asking no questions?” It -might be foolish, perhaps: but after all -how slight a matter. To make the poor -creature comfortable at the cost of what—a -box or two of cigars, perhaps, or -some other trifle. And if it should be -her own fault, or her husband's—what -then? Had I been punished for all my -faults, where should I have been now. -And if the advantage should be only -temporary, what then? To be relieved -and comforted even for a day or two, -was not that something to count in life? -Thus I quenched the fiery dart of criticism -which my <em>protégée</em> herself had -thrown into the transaction, not without -a certain sense of the humor of it. Its -effect, however, was to make me less -anxious to see my father, to repeat my -proposal to him, and to call his attention -to the cruelty performed in his -name. This one case I had taken out -of the category of wrongs to be righted, -by assuming arbitrarily the position of -Providence in my own person—for, of -course, I had bound myself to pay the -poor creature's rent as well as redeem -her goods—and, whatever might happen -to her in the future, had taken the past -into my own hands. The man came -presently to see me who, it seems, had -acted as my father's agent in the matter. -“I don't know, sir, how Mr. Canning -will take it,” he said. “He don't want -none of those irregular, bad-paying ones -in his property. He always says as to -look over it and let the rent run on is -making things worse in the end. His -rule is, 'Never more than a month, Stevens:' -that's what Mr. Canning says to -me, sir. He says, 'More than that they -can't pay. It's no use trying.' And -it's a good rule; it's a very good rule. -He won't hear none of their stories, sir. -Bless you, you'd never get a penny of -rent from them small houses if you listened -to their tales. But if so be as -you'll pay Mrs. Jordan's rent, it's none -of my business how it's paid, so long as -it's paid, and I'll send her back her -things. But they'll just have to be took -next time,” he added, composedly. -“Over and over: it's always the same -story with them sort of poor folks—they're -too poor for anything, that's the -truth,” the man said.</p> - -<p>Morphew came back to my room after -my visitor was gone. “Mr. Philip,” -he said, “you'll excuse me, sir, but if -you're going to pay all the poor folk's -rent as have distresses put in, you may -just go into the court at once, for it's -without end—”</p> - -<p>“I am going to be the agent myself, -Morphew, and manage for my father: -and we'll soon put a stop to that,” I -said, more cheerfully than I felt.</p> - -<p>“Manage for—master,” he said, with -a face of consternation. “You, Mr. -Philip!”</p> - -<p>“You seem to have a great contempt -for me, Morphew.”</p> - -<p>He did not deny the fact. He said -with excitement, “Master, sir—master -don't let himself be put a stop to by any -man. Master's—not one to be managed. -Don't you quarrel with master, -Mr. Philip, for the love of God.” The -old man was quite pale.</p> - -<p>“Quarrel!” I said. “I have never -quarreled with my father, and I don't -mean to begin now.”</p> - -<p>Morphew dispelled his own excitement -by making up the fire, which was dying -in the grate. It was a very mild spring -evening, and he made up a great blaze -which would have suited December. -This is one of many ways in which an -old servant will relieve his mind. He -muttered all the time as he threw on the -coals and wood. “He'll not like it—we -all know as he'll not like it. Master -won't stand no meddling, Mr. Philip,”—this -last he discharged at me like a -flying arrow as he closed the door.</p> - -<p>I soon found there was truth in what -he said. My father was not angry; he -was even half amused. “I don't think -that plan of yours will hold water, Phil. -I hear you have been paying rents and -redeeming furniture—that's an expensive -game, and a very profitless one. Of -course, so long as you are a benevolent -gentleman acting for your own pleasure, -it makes no difference to me. I am -quite content if I get my money, even -out of your pockets—so long as it -amuses you. But as my collector, you -know, which you are good enough to -propose to be——”</p> - -<p>“Of course I should act under your -orders,” I said; but at least you -might be sure that I would not commit -you to any—to any——” I paused for -a word.</p> - -<p>“Act of oppression,” he said with a -smile—“piece of cruelty, exaction—there -are half-a-dozen words——”</p> - -<p>“Sir——” I cried.</p> - -<p>“Stop, Phil, and let us understand -each other. I hope I have always been -a just man. I do my duty on my side, -and I expect it from others. It is your -benevolence that is cruel. I have calculated -anxiously how much credit it is -safe to allow; but I will allow no man, -or woman either, to go beyond what he -or she can make up. My law is fixed. -Now you understand. My agents, as -you call them, originate nothing—they -execute only what I decide——”</p> - -<p>“But then no circumstances are taken -into account—no bad luck, no evil -chances, no loss unexpected.”</p> - -<p>“There are no evil chances,” he said -“there is no bad luck—they reap as -they sow. No, I don't go among them -to be cheated by their stories and spend -quite unnecessary emotion in sympathising -with them. You will find it much -better for you that I don't. I deal with -them on a general rule, made, I assure -you, not without a great deal of -thought.”</p> - -<p>“And must it always be so?” I said. -“Is there no way of ameliorating or -bringing in a better state of things?”</p> - -<p>“It seems not,” he said; “we don't -get 'no forrarder' in that direction so -far as I can see.” And then he turned -the conversation to general matters.</p> - -<p>I retired to my room greatly discouraged -that night. In former ages—or -so one is led to suppose—and in the -lower primitive classes who still linger -near the primeval type, action of any -kind was, and is, easier than amid the -complications of our higher civilisation. -A bad man is a distinct entity, against -whom you know more or less what steps -to take. A tyrant, an oppressor, a bad -landlord, a man who lets miserable -tenements at a rack-rent (to come down -to particulars), and exposes his wretched -tenants to all those abominations of -which we have heard so much—well! he -is more or less a satisfactory opponent. -There he is, and there is nothing to be -said for him—down with him! and let -there be an end of his wickedness. -But when, on the contrary, you have before -you a good man, a just man, who -has considered deeply a question which -you allow to be full of difficulty; who -regrets, but cannot, being human, avert, -the miseries which to some unhappy individuals -follow from the very wisdom -of his rule,—what can you do—what is -to be done? Individual benevolence at -haphazard may baulk him here and -there, but what have you to put in the -place of his well-considered scheme? -Charity which makes paupers? or what -else? I had not considered the question -deeply, but it seemed to me that I now -came to a blank wall, which my vague -human sentiment of pity and scorn could -find no way to breach. There must be -wrong somewhere—but where? There -must be some change for the better to be -made—but how?</p> - -<p>I was seated with a book before me -on the table, with my head supported on -my hands. My eyes were on the printed -page, but I was not reading—my mind -was full of these thoughts, my heart of -great discouragement and despondency, -a sense that I could do nothing, yet that -there surely must and ought, if I but -knew it, be something to do. The fire -which Morphew had built up before -dinner was dying out, the shaded lamp -on my table left all the corners in a -mysterious twilight. The house was perfectly -still, no one moving: my father -in the library, where, after the habit of -many solitary years, he liked to be left -alone, and I here in my retreat, preparing -for the formation of similar habits. I -thought all at once of the third member -of the party, the newcomer, alone too -in the room that had been hers; and -there suddenly occurred to me a strong -desire to take up my lamp and go to -the drawing-room and visit her, to see -whether her soft angelic face would give -any inspiration. I restrained, however, -this futile impulse—for what could the -picture say?—and instead wondered -what might have been had she lived, had -she been there, warmly enthroned beside -the warm domestic centre, the hearth -which would have been a common sanctuary, -the true home. In that case what -might have been? Alas! the question -was no more simple to answer than the -other: she might have been there alone -too, her husband's business, her son's -thoughts, as far from her as now, when -her silent representative held her old -place in the silence and darkness. I -had known it so, often enough. Love -itself does not always give comprehension -and sympathy. It might be that -she was more to us there, in the sweet -image of her undeveloped beauty, than -she might have been had she lived and -grown to maturity and fading, like the -rest.</p> - -<p>I cannot be certain whether my mind -was still lingering on this not very -cheerful reflection, or if it had been left -behind, when the strange occurrence -came of which I have now to tell: can I -call it an occurrence? My eyes were on -my book, when I thought I heard the -sound of a door opening and shutting, -but so far away and faint that if real at -all it must have been in a far corner of -the house. I did not move except to lift -my eyes from the book, as one does instinctively -the better to listen; when——But -I cannot tell, nor have I ever been -able to describe exactly what it was. -My heart made all at once a sudden leap -in my breast. I am aware that this language -is figurative, and that the heart -cannot leap: but it is a figure so entirely -justified by sensation, that no one will -have any difficulty in understanding what -I mean. My heart leapt up and began -beating wildly in my throat, in my ears, -as if my whole being had received a sudden -and intolerable shock. The sound -went through my head like the dizzy -sound of some strange mechanism, a -thousand wheels and springs, circling, -echoing, working in my brain. I felt -the blood bound in my veins, my mouth -became dry, my eyes hot, a sense of -something insupportable took possession -of me. I sprang to my feet, and then I -sat down again. I cast a quick glance -round me beyond the brief circle of the -lamplight, but there was nothing there -to account in any way for this sudden -extraordinary rush of sensation—nor -could I feel any meaning in it, any suggestion, -any moral impression. I thought -I must be going to be ill, and got out -my watch and felt my pulse: it was -beating furiously, about 125 throbs in a -minute. I knew of no illness that could -come on like this with out warning, in a -moment, and I tried to subdue myself, -to say to myself that it was nothing, -some flutter of the nerves, some physical -disturbance. I laid myself down upon -my sofa to try if rest would help me, and -keep still—as long as the thumping and -throbbing of this wild excited mechanism -within, like a wild beast plunging and -struggling, would let me. I am quite -aware of the confusion of the metaphor—the -reality was just so. It was like a -mechanism deranged, going wildly with -ever-increasing precipitation, like those -horrible wheels that from time to time -catch a helpless human being in them -and tear him to pieces: but at the same -time it was like a maddened living creature -making the wildest efforts to get free.</p> - -<p>When I could bear this no longer I -got up and walked about my room; -then having still a certain command of -myself, though I could not master the -commotion within me, I deliberately -took down an exciting book from the -shelf, a book of breathless adventure -which had always interested me, and -tried with that to break the spell. After -a few minutes, however, I flung the book -aside; I was gradually losing all power -over myself. What I should be moved -to do,—to shout aloud, to struggle with -I know not what; or if was I going -mad altogether, and next moment must -be a raving lunatic,—I could not tell. I -kept looking round, expecting I don't -know what: several times with the -corner of my eye I seemed to see a -movement, as if some one was stealing -out of sight; but when I looked straight, -there was never anything but the plain -outlines of the wall and carpet, the -chairs standing in good order. At last I -snatched up the lamp in my hand and -went out of the room. To look at the -picture? which had been faintly showing -in my imagination from time to time, the -eyes, more anxious than ever, looking at -me from out the silent air. But no; I -passed the door of that room swiftly, -moving, it seemed, without any volition -of my own, and before I knew where I -was going, went into my father's library -with my lamp in my hand.</p> - -<p>He was still sitting there at his writing-table; -he looked up astonished to see -me hurrying in with my light. “Phil!” -he said, surprised. I remember that I -shut the door behind me, and came up -to him, and set down the lamp on his -table. My sudden appearance alarmed -him. “What is the matter?” he cried. -“Philip, what have you been doing with -yourself?”</p> - -<p>I sat down on the nearest chair and -gasped, gazing at him. The wild commotion -ceased, the blood subsided into -its natural channels, my heart resumed -its place, I use such words as mortal -weakness can to express the sensations I -felt. I came to myself thus, gazing at -him, confounded, at once by the extraordinary -passion which I had gone -through, and its sudden cessation. -“The matter?” I cried; “I don't -know what is the matter.”</p> - -<p>My father had pushed his spectacles -up from his eyes. He appeared to me -as faces appear in a fever, all glorified -with light which is not in them—his eyes -glowing, his white hair shining like -silver; but his look was severe. “You -are not a boy, that I should reprove -you; but you ought to know better,” he -said.</p> - -<p>Then I explained to him, so far as I -was able, what had happened. Had -happened? nothing had happened. He -did not understand me—nor did I, now -that it was over, understand myself; but -he saw enough to make him aware that -the disturbance in me was serious, and -not caused by any folly of my own. He -was very kind as soon as he had assured -himself of this, and talked, taking pains -to bring me back to unexciting subjects. -He had a letter in his hand with a very -deep border of black when I came in. -I observed it, without taking any notice -or associating it with anything I knew. -He had many correspondents, and -although we were excellent friends, we -had never been on those confidential -terms which warrant one man in asking -another from whom a special letter has -come. We were not so near to each -other as this, though we were father -and son. After a while I went back to -my own room, and finished the evening -in my usual way, without any return of -the excitement which, now that it was -over, looked to me like some extraordinary -dream. What had it meant? had -it meant anything? I said to myself -that it must be purely physical, something -gone temporarily amiss, which had -righted itself. It was physical; the -excitement did not affect my mind. I -was independent of it all the time, a -spectator of my own agitation—a clear -proof that, whatever it was, it had -affected my bodily organisation alone.</p> - -<p>Next day I returned to the problem -which I had not been able to solve. I -found out my petitioner in the back -street, and that she was happy in the recovery -of her possessions, which to my -eyes indeed did not seem very worthy -either of lamentation or delight. Nor -was her house the tidy house which injured -virtue should have when restored -to its humble rights. She was not injured -virtue, it was clear. She made me a -great many curtseys, and poured forth -a number of blessings. Her “man” -came in while I was there, and hoped in -a gruff voice that God would reward me -and that the old gentleman 'd let 'em -alone. I did not like the looks of the -man. It seemed to me that in the dark -lane behind the house of a winter's -night he would not be a pleasant person -to find in one's way. Nor was this all: -when I went out into the little street, -which it appeared was all, or almost -all, my fathers property, a number of -groups formed in my way, and at least -half-a-dozen applicants sidled up. “I've -more claims nor Mary Jordan any day,” -said one; “I've lived on Squire Canning's -property one place and another, -this twenty year.” “And what do you -say to me,” said another; “I've six -children to her two, bless you, sir, and -ne'er a father to do for them.” I -believed in my father's rule before I -got out of the street, and approved his -wisdom in keeping himself free from -personal contact with his tenants. Yet -when I looked back upon the swarming -thoroughfare, the mean little houses, the -women at their doors all so open-mouthed, -and eager to contend for my -favor, my heart sank within me at the -thought that out of their misery some -portion of our wealth came—I don't care -how small a portion: that I, young and -strong, should be kept idle and in -luxury, in some part through the money -screwed out of their necessities, obtained -sometimes by the sacrifice of everything -they prized! Of course I know all the -ordinary commonplaces of life as well as -anyone—that if you build a house with -your hands or your money, and let it, -the rent of it is your just due, and must -be paid. But yet——</p> - -<p>“Don't you think, sir,” I said, that -evening at dinner, the subject being reintroduced -by my father himself, “that -we have some duty towards them when -we draw so much from them?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” he said; “I take as -much trouble about their drains as I do -about my own.”</p> - -<p>“That is always something, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Something! it is a great deal—it is -more than they get anywhere else. I -keep them clean, as far as that's possible. -I give them at least the means of -keeping clean, and thus check disease, -and prolong life—which is more, I assure -you, than they've any right to expect.”</p> - -<p>I was not prepared with arguments as -I ought to have been. That is all in -the Gospel according to Adam Smith, -which my father had been brought up in, -but of which the tenets had begun to be -less binding in my day. I wanted -something more, or else something else; -but my views were not so clear, nor my -system so logical and well-built, as that -upon which my father rested his conscience, -and drew his percentage with a -light heart.</p> - -<p>Yet I thought there were signs in him -of some perturbation. I met him one -morning coming out of the room in -which the portrait hung, as if he had -gone to look at it stealthily. He was -shaking his head, and saying, “No, -no,” to himself, not perceiving me, and -I stepped aside when I saw him so absorbed. -For myself, I entered that -room but little. I went outside, as I -had so often done when I was a child, -and looked through the windows into -the still and now sacred place, which had -always impressed me with a certain awe. -Looked at so, the slight figure in its white -dress seemed to be stepping down into -the room from some slight visionary -altitude, looking with that which had -seemed to me at first anxiety, which I -sometimes represented to myself now as -a wistful curiosity, as if she were looking -for the life which might have been -hers. Where was the existence that had -belonged to her, the sweet household -place, the infant she had left? She would -no more recognize the man who thus -came to look at her as through a veil -with mystic reverence, than I could recognize -her. I could never be her child -to her, any more than she could be a -mother to me.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Thus time passed on for several quiet -days. There was nothing to make us -give any special heed to the passage of -time, life being very uneventful and its -habits unvaried. My mind was very -much preoccupied by my father's -tenants. He had a great deal of property -in the town which was so near us,—streets -of small houses, the best paying -property (I was assured) of any. I was -very anxious to come to some settled -conclusion: on the one hand, not to let -myself be carried away by sentiment; -on the other, not to allow my strongly -roused feelings to fall into the blank of -routine, as his had done. I was seated -one evening in my own sitting-room busy -with this matter,—busy with calculations -as to cost and profit, with an anxious -desire to convince him, either that his -profits were greater than justice allowed, -or that they carried with them a more -urgent duty than he had conceived.</p> - -<p>It was night, but not late, not more -than ten o'clock, the household still -astir. Everything was quiet—not the -solemnity of midnight silence, in which -there is always something of mystery, -but the soft-breathing quiet of the evening, -full of the faint habitual sounds of a -human dwelling, a consciousness of life -about. And I was very busy with my -figures, interested, feeling no room in -my mind for any other thought. The -singular experience which had startled -me so much had passed over very -quickly, and there had been no return. -I had ceased to think of it: indeed I -had never thought of it save for the moment, -setting it down after it was over to -a physical cause without much difficulty. -At this time I was far too busy to have -thoughts to spare for anything, or room -for imagination: and when suddenly in -a moment without any warning, the first -symptom returned, I started with it into -determined resistance, resolute not to be -fooled by any mock influence which -could resolve itself into the action of -nerves or ganglions. The first symptom, -as before, was that my heart sprang up -with a bound, as if a cannon had been -fired at my ear. My whole being responded -with a start. The pen fell out -of my fingers, the figures went out of my -head as if all faculty had departed: and -yet I was conscious for a time at least of -keeping my self-control. I was like the -rider of a frightened horse, rendered -almost wild by something which in the -mystery of its voiceless being it has -seen, something on the road which it will -not pass, but wildly plunging, resisting -every persuasion, turns from, with ever -increasing passion. The rider himself -after a time becomes infected with this -inexplainable desperation of terror, and -I suppose I must have done so: but for -a time I kept the upper hand. I would -not allow myself to spring up as I -wished, as my impulse was, but sat there -doggedly, clinging to my books, to my -table, fixing myself on I did not mind -what, to resist the flood of sensation, of -emotion, which was sweeping through -me, carrying me away. I tried to continue -my calculations. I tried to stir -myself up with recollections of the miserable -sights I had seen, the poverty, the -helplessness. I tried to work myself -into indignation; but all through these -efforts I felt the contagion growing upon -me, my mind falling into sympathy with -all those straining faculties of the body, -startled, excited, driven wild by something -I knew not what. It was not fear. -I was like a ship at sea straining and -plunging against wind and tide, but I -was not afraid. I am obliged to use -these metaphors, otherwise I could give -no explanation of my condition, seized -upon against my will, and torn from all -those moorings of reason to which I -clung with desperation—as long as I had -the strength.</p> - -<p>When I got up from my chair at last, -the battle was lost, so far as my powers -of self-control were concerned. I got -up, or rather was dragged up, from my -seat, clutching at these material things -round me as with a last effort to hold my -own. But that was no longer possible; -I was overcome. I stood for a moment -looking round me feebly, feeling -myself begin to babble with stammering -lips, which was the alternative of shrieking, -and which I seemed to choose as a -lesser evil. What I said was, “What am -I to do?” and after a while, “What do -you want me to do?” although throughout -I saw no one, heard no voice, and -had in reality not power enough in my -dizzy and confused brain to know what -I myself meant. I stood thus for a -moment looking blankly round me for -guidance, repeating the question, which -seemed after a time to become almost -mechanical. What do you want me to -do? though I neither knew to whom I -addressed it nor why I said it. Presently—whether -in answer, whether in mere -yielding of nature, I cannot tell—I became -aware of a difference: not a lessening -of the agitation, but a softening, as -if my powers of resistance being exhausted, -a gentler force, a more benignant influence, -had room. I felt myself consent -to whatever it was. My heart melted in -the midst of the tumult; I seemed to -give myself up, and move as if drawn by -some one whose arm was in mine, as if -softly swept along, not forcibly, but with -an utter consent of all my faculties to do -I knew not what, for love of I knew not -whom. For love—that was how it seemed—not -by force, as when I went before. -But my steps took the same course: I -went through the dim passages in an -exaltation indescribable, and opened the -door of my father's room.</p> - -<p>He was seated there at his table, as -usual, the light of the lamp falling on -his white hair: he looked up with some -surprise at the sound of the opening -door. “Phil,” he said, and, with a look -of wondering apprehension on his face, -watched my approach. I went straight -up to him, and put my hand on his -shoulder. “Phil, what is the matter? -What do you want with me? What is -it?” he said.</p> - -<p>“Father, I can't tell you. I come -not of myself. There must be something -in it, though I don't know what it -is. This is the second time I have been -brought to you here.”</p> - -<p>“Are you going——?” he stopped -himself. The exclamation had been -begun with an angry intention. He -stopped, looked at me with a scared look, -as if perhaps it might be true.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean mad? I don't think -so. I have no delusions that I know -of. Father, think—do you know any -reason why I am brought here? for some -cause there must be.”</p> - -<p>I stood with my hand upon the back -of his chair. His table was covered with -papers, among which were several letters -with the broad black border which I had -before observed. I noticed this now in -my excitement without any distinct associations -of thoughts, for that I was not -capable of; but the black border caught -my eye. And I was conscious that he, -too, gave a hurried glance at them, and -with one hand swept them away.</p> - -<p>“Philip,” he said, pushing back his -chair, “you must be ill, my poor boy. -Evidently we have not been treating you -rightly: you have been more ill all -through than I supposed. Let me -persuade you to go to bed.”</p> - -<p>“I am perfectly well,” I said. “Father, -don't let us deceive one another. -I am neither a man to go mad nor to see -ghosts. What it is that has got the command -over me I can't tell: but there is -some cause for it. You are doing something -or planning something with which -I have a right to interfere.”</p> - -<p>He turned round squarely in his chair -with a spark in his blue eyes. He was -not a man to be meddled with. “I have -yet to learn what can give my son a right -to interfere. I am in possession of all -my faculties, I hope.”</p> - -<p>“Father,” I cried, “won't you listen -to me? no one can say I have been -undutiful or disrespectful. I am a -man, with a right to speak my mind, and -I have done so; but this is different. I -am not here by my own will. Something -that is stronger than I has brought -me. There is something in your mind -which disturbs—others. I don't know -what I am saying. This is not what I -meant to say: but you know the meaning -better than I. Some one—who can -speak to you only by me—speaks to you -by me; and I know that you understand.”</p> - -<p>He gazed up at me, growing pale, and -his under lip fell. I, for my part, felt -that my message was delivered. My -heart sank into a stillness so sudden that -it made me faint. The light swam in -my eyes: everything went round with -me. I kept upright only by my hold -upon the chair; and in the sense of -utter weakness that followed I dropped -on my knees I think first, then on the -nearest seat that presented itself, and -covering my face with my hands, had -hard ado not to sob, in the sudden removal -of that strange influence, the relaxation -of the strain.</p> - -<p>There was silence between us for -some time; then he said, but with a -voice slightly broken, “I don't understand -you Phil. You must have taken -some fancy into your mind which my -slower intelligence——Speak out what -you want to say. What do you find -fault with? Is it all—all that woman -Jordan?”</p> - -<p>He gave a short forced laugh as he -broke off, and shook me almost roughly -by the shoulder, saying, “speak out! -what—what do you want to say?”</p> - -<p>“It seems, sir, that I have said everything.” -My voice trembled more than -his, but not in the same way. “I have -told you that I did not come by my own -will—quite otherwise. I resisted as long -as I could: now all is said. It is for -you to judge whether it was worth the -trouble or not.”</p> - -<p>He got up from his seat in a hurried -way. “You would have me as—mad as -yourself,” he said, then sat down again -as quickly. “Come, Phil: if it will -please you, not to make a breach, the -first breach, between us, you shall have -your way. I consent to your looking -into that matter about the poor tenants. -Your mind shall not be upset about that -even though I don't enter into all your -views.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” I said; “but father, -that is not what it is.”</p> - -<p>“Then it is a piece of folly,” he -said, angrily. “I suppose you mean——but -this is a matter in which I -choose to judge for myself.”</p> - -<p>“You know what I mean,” I said, -as quietly as I could, “though I don't -myself know; that proves there is good -reason for it. Will you do one thing for -me before I leave you? Come with me -into the drawing-room——”</p> - -<p>“What end,” he said, with again the -tremble in his voice, “is to be served by -that?”</p> - -<p>“I don't very well know; but to look -at her, you and I together, will always -do something for us, sir. As for the -breach, there can be no breach when we -stand there.”</p> - -<p>He got up, trembling like an old man, -which he was, but which he never looked -like, save at moments of emotion like -this, and told me to take the light; then -stopped when he had got half-way across -the room. “This is a piece of theatrical -sentimentality,” he said. “No, Phil, -I will not go. I will not bring her into -any such——Put down the lamp, and -if you will take my advice, go to bed.”</p> - -<p>“At least,” I said, “I will trouble -you no more, father, to-night. So long -as you understand, there need be no -more to say.”</p> - -<p>He gave me a very curt “good-night,” -and turned back to his papers—the -letters with the black edge, either by -my imagination or in reality, always -keeping uppermost. I went to my own -room for my lamp, and then alone proceeded -to the silent shrine in which the -portrait hung. I at least would look at -her to-night. I don't know whether I -asked myself, in so many words, if it -were she who—or if it was any one—I -knew nothing; but my heart was drawn -with a softness—born, perhaps, of the -great weakness in which I was left after -that visitation—to her, to look at her, to -see perhaps if there was any sympathy, -any approval in her face. I set down -my lamp on the table where her little -work-basket still was: the light threw a -gleam upward upon her,—she seemed -more than ever to be stepping into the -room, coming down towards me, coming -back to her life. Ah no! her life was -lost and vanished: all mine stood between -her and the days she knew. She -looked at me with eyes that did not -change. The anxiety I had seen at first -seemed now a wistful subdued question; -but that difference was not in her look -but in mine.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>I need not linger on the intervening -time. The doctor who attended us -usually, came in next day “by accident,” -and we had a long conversation. -On the following day a very impressive -yet genial gentleman from town lunched -with us—a friend of my father's, Dr. -something; but the introduction was -hurried, and I did not catch his name. -He, too, had a long talk with me afterwards—my -father being called away to -speak to some one on business. Dr. -—— drew me out on the subject of the -dwellings of the poor. He said he heard -I took great interest in this question, -which had come so much to the front at -the present moment. He was interested -in it too, and wanted to know the view I -took. I explained at considerable length -that my view did not concern the general -subject, on which I had scarcely -thought, so much as the individual mode -of management of my father's estate. -He was a most patient and intelligent -listener, agreeing with me on some -points, differing in others; and his visit -was very pleasant. I had no idea until -after of its special object: though a certain -puzzled look and slight shake of -the head when my father returned, might -have thrown some light upon it. The -report of the medical experts in my -case, however, had been quite satisfactory, -for I heard nothing more of -them. It was, I think, a fortnight later -when the next and last of these strange -experiences came.</p> - -<p>This time it was morning, about noon,—a -wet and rather dismal spring day. -The half-spread leaves seemed to tap at -the window, with an appeal to be taken -in; the primroses, that showed golden -upon the grass at the roots of the trees, -just beyond the smooth-shorn grass of -the lawn, were all drooped and sodden -among their sheltering leaves. The very -growth seemed dreary—the sense of -spring in the air making the feeling of -winter a grievance, instead of the natural -effect which it had conveyed a few -months before. I had been writing -letters and was cheerful enough, going -back among the associates of my old -life, with, perhaps, a little longing for its -freedom and independence, but at the -same time a not ungrateful consciousness -that for the moment my present tranquillity -might be best.</p> - -<p>This was my condition—a not unpleasant -one—when suddenly the now -well-known symptoms of the visitation to -which I had become subject suddenly -seized upon me,—the leap of the heart; -the sudden, causeless, overwhelming -physical excitement, which I could -neither ignore nor allay. I was terrified -beyond description, beyond reason, -when I became conscious that this was -about to begin over again: what purpose -did it answer, what good was in it? My -father, indeed, understood the meaning -of it, though I did not understand: but -it was little agreeable to be thus made a -helpless instrument without any will of -mine, in an operation of which I knew -nothing; and to enact the part of the -oracle unwillingly, with suffering and -such a strain as it took me days to get -over. I resisted, not as before, but yet -desperately, trying with better knowledge -to keep down the growing passion. I -hurried to my room and swallowed a -dose of a sedative which had been given -me to procure sleep on my first return -from India. I saw Morphew in the -hall, and called him to talk to him, and -cheat myself, if possible, by that means. -Morphew lingered, however, and, before -he came, I was beyond conversation. -I heard him speak, his voice coming -vaguely through the turmoil which was -already in my ears, but what he said I -have never known. I stood staring, trying -to recover my power of attention, -with an aspect which ended by completely -frightening the man. He cried -out at last that he was sure I was ill, -that he must bring me something; which -words penetrated more or less into my -maddened brain. It became impressed -upon me that he was going to get some -one—one of my father's doctors, perhaps—to -prevent me from acting, to -stop my interference,—and that if I -waited a moment longer I might be too -late. A vague idea seized me at the -same time, of taking refuge with the -portrait—going to its feet, throwing myself -there, perhaps, till the paroxysm -should be over. But it was not there -that my footsteps were directed. I can -remember making an effort to open the -door of the drawing-room, and feeling -myself swept past it, as if by a gale of -wind. It was not there that I had to go. -I knew very well where I had to go,—once -more on my confused and voiceless -mission to my father, who understood, -although I could not understand.</p> - -<p>Yet as it was daylight, and all was -clear, I could not help noting one or two -circumstances on my way. I saw some -one sitting in the hall as if waiting—a -woman, a girl, a black-shrouded figure, -with a thick veil over her face: and -asked myself who she was, and what she -wanted there? This question, which had -nothing to do with my present condition, -somehow got into my mind, and was -tossed up and down upon the tumultuous -tide like a stray log on the breast of -a fiercely rolling stream, now submerged, -now coming uppermost, at the mercy of -the waters. It did not stop me for a moment, -as I hurried towards my father's -room, but it got upon the current of -my mind. I flung open my father's -door, and closed it again after me, without -seeing who was there or how he -was engaged. The full clearness of -the daylight did not identify him as the -lamp did at night. He looked up at -the sound of the door, with a glance of -apprehension; and rising suddenly, interrupting -some one who was standing -speaking to him with much earnestness -and even vehemence, came forward to -meet me. “I cannot be disturbed at -present,” he said quickly; “I am -busy.” Then seeing the look in my -face, which by this time he knew, he too -changed color. “Phil,” he said, in a -low, imperative voice, “wretched boy, -go away—go away; don't let a stranger -see you——”</p> - -<p>“I can't go away,” I said. “It is -impossible. You know why I have -come. I cannot, if I would. It is more -powerful than I——”</p> - -<p>“Go, sir,” he said; “go at once—no -more of this folly. I will not have -you in this room. Go——go!”</p> - -<p>I made no answer. I don't know -that I could have done so. There had -never been any struggle between us before; -but I had no power to do one -thing or another. The tumult within -me was in full career. I heard indeed -what he said, and was able to reply; but -his words, too, were like straws tossed -upon the tremendous stream. I saw -now with my feverish eyes who the -other person present was. It was a -woman, dressed also in mourning similar -to the one in the hall; but this a -middle-aged woman, like a respectable -servant. She had been crying, and in -the pause caused by this encounter between -my father and myself, dried her -eyes with a handkerchief, which she rolled -like a ball in her hand, evidently in -strong emotion. She turned and looked -at me as my father spoke to me, for a -moment with a gleam of hope, then falling -back into her former attitude.</p> - -<p>My father returned to his seat. He -was much agitated too, though doing -all that was possible to conceal it. My -inopportune arrival was evidently a great -and unlooked-for vexation to him. He -gave me the only look of passionate displeasure -I have ever had from him, as -he sat down again: but he said nothing -more.</p> - -<p>“You must understand,” he said, -addressing the woman, “that I have -said my last words on this subject. I -don't choose to enter into it again in -the presence of my son, who is not well -enough to be made a party to any discussion. -I am sorry that you should have -had so much trouble in vain; but you -were warned beforehand, and you have -only yourself to blame. I acknowledge -no claim, and nothing you can say will -change my resolution. I must beg you -to go away. All this is very painful and -quite useless. I acknowledge no claim.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir,” she cried, her eyes beginning -once more to flow, her speech interrupted -by little sobs. “Maybe I did -wrong to speak of a claim. I'm not educated -to argue with a gentleman. Maybe -we have no claim. But if it's not by -right, oh, Mr. Canning, won't you let -your heart be touched by pity? She -don't know what I'm saying, poor dear. -She's not one to beg and pray for herself, -as I'm doing for her. Oh, sir, -she's so young! She's so lone in this -world—not a friend to stand by her, nor -a house to take her in! You are the -nearest to her of any one that's left in -this world. She hasn't a relation—not -one so near as you——oh!” she cried, -with a sudden thought, turning quickly -round upon me, “this gentleman's your -son! Now I think of it, it's not your -relation she is, but his, through his -mother! That's nearer, nearer! Oh, -sir! you're young; your heart should -be more tender. Here is my young -lady that has no one in the world to -look to her. Your own flesh and blood: -your mother's cousin—your mother's——”</p> - -<p>My father called to her to stop, with -a voice of thunder. “Philip, leave us -at once. It is not a matter to be discussed -with you.”</p> - -<p>And then in a moment it became clear -to me what it was. It had been with -difficulty that I had kept myself still. -My breast was laboring with the fever of -an impulse poured into me, more than -I could contain. And now for the first -time I knew why. I hurried towards -him, and took his hand, though he resisted, -into mine. Mine were burning, -but his like ice: their touch burnt me -with its chill, like fire. “This is what -it is?” I cried. “I had no knowledge -before. I don't know now what is being -asked of you. But, father—understand! -You know, and I know now, -that some one sends me—some one—who -has a right to interfere.”</p> - -<p>He pushed me away with all his might. -“You are mad,” he cried. “What -right have you to think——? Oh, you -are mad—mad! I have seen it coming -on——”</p> - -<p>The woman, the petitioner, had grown -silent, watching this brief conflict with -the terror and interest with which women -watch a struggle between men. She -started and fell back when she heard -what he said, but did not take her eyes -off me, following every movement I -made. When I turned to go away, a -cry of indescribable disappointment and -remonstrance burst from her, and even -my father raised himself up and stared -at my withdrawal, astonished to find -that he had overcome me so soon and -easily. I paused for a moment, and -looked back on them, seeing them large -and vague through the mist of fever. -“I am not going away,” I said. “I -am going for another messenger—one -you can't gainsay.”</p> - -<p>My father rose. He called out to me -threateningly, “I will have nothing -touched that is hers. Nothing that is -hers shall be profaned——”</p> - -<p>I waited to hear no more: I knew -what I had to do. By what means it -was conveyed to me I cannot tell; but -the certainty of an influence which no -one thought of calmed me in the midst -of my fever. I went out into the hall, -where I had seen the young stranger -waiting. I went up to her and touched -her on the shoulder. She rose at once, -with a little movement of alarm, yet with -docile and instant obedience, as if she -had expected the summons. I made her -take off her veil and her bonnet, scarcely -looking at her, scarcely seeing her, -knowing how it was: I took her soft, -small, cool, yet trembling hand into -mine; it was so soft and cool, not cold, it -refreshed me with its tremulous touch. -All through I moved and spoke like a -man in a dream, swiftly, noiselessly, all -the complications of waking life removed, -without embarrassment, without -reflection, without the loss of a moment. -My father was still standing up, leaning -a little forward as he had done when I -withdrew, threatening, yet terror-stricken, -not knowing what I might be about -to do, when I returned with my companion. -That was the one thing he had -not thought of. He was entirely undefended, -unprepared. He gave her one -look, flung up his arms above his head, -and uttered a distracted cry, so wild -that it seemed the last outcry of nature—“Agnes!” -then fell back like a sudden -ruin, upon himself, into his chair.</p> - -<p>I had no leisure to think how he was, -or whether he could hear what I said. I -had my message to deliver. “Father,” -I said, laboring with my panting breath, -“it is for this that heaven has opened, -and one whom I never saw, one whom I -know not, has taken possession of me. -Had we been less earthly we should have -seen her—herself, and not merely her -image. I have not even known what -she meant. I have been as a fool without -understanding. This is the third -time I have come to you with her message, -without knowing what to say. But -now I have found it out. This is her -message. I have found it out at last.”</p> - -<p>There was an awful pause—a pause -in which no one moved or breathed. -Then there came a broken voice out of -my father's chair. He had not understood, -though I think he heard what I -said. He put out two feeble hands. -“Phil—I think I am dying—has she—has -she come for me?” he said.</p> - -<p>We had to carry him to his bed. What -struggles he had gone through before I -cannot tell. He had stood fast, and had -refused to be moved, and now he fell—like -an old tower, like an old tree. The -necessity there was for thinking of him -saved me from the physical consequences -which had prostrated me on a former -occasion. I had no leisure now for any -consciousness of how matters went with -myself.</p> - -<p>His delusion was not wonderful, but -most natural. She was clothed in black -from head to foot, instead of the white -dress of the portrait. She had no knowledge -of the conflict, of nothing but that -she was called for, that her fate might -depend on the next few minutes. In her -eyes there was a pathetic question, a line -of anxiety in the lids, an innocent appeal -in the looks. And the face the -same: the same lips, sensitive, ready to -quiver; the same innocent, candid brow; -the look of a common race, which is -more subtle than mere resemblance. -How I knew that it was so, I cannot -tell, nor any man. It was the other—the -elder—ah no! not elder; the ever -young, the Agnes to whom age can never -come—she who they say was the mother -of a man who never saw her—it was -she who led her kinswoman, her representative, -into our hearts.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>My father recovered after a few days: -he had taken cold, it was said, the day -before—and naturally, at seventy, a -small matter is enough to upset the balance -even of a strong man. He got -quite well; but he was willing enough -afterwards to leave the management of -that ticklish kind of property which involves -human well-being in my hands, -who could move about more freely, and -see with my own eyes how things were -going on. He liked home better, and -had more pleasure in his personal existence -in the end of his life. Agnes is -now my wife, as he had, of course, foreseen. -It was not merely the disinclination -to receive her father's daughter, or -to take upon him a new responsibility, -that had moved him, to do him justice. -But both these motives had told strongly. -I have never been told, and now will -never be told, what his griefs against my -mother's family, and especially against -that cousin, had been; but that he had -been very determined, deeply prejudiced, -there can be no doubt. It turned -out after, that the first occasion on -which I had been mysteriously commissioned -to him with a message which I -did not understand, and which for that -time he did not understand, was the -evening of the day on which he had received -the dead man's letter, appealing -to him—to him, a man whom he had -wronged—on behalf of the child who -was about to be left friendless in the -world. The second time, further letters, -from the nurse who was the only guardian -of the orphan, and the chaplain of -the place where her father had died, -taking it for granted that my father's -house was her natural refuge—had been -received. The third I have already described, -and its results.</p> - -<p>For a long time after, my mind was -never without a lurking fear that the influence -which had once taken possession -of me might return again. Why should I -have feared to be influenced—to be the -messenger of a blessed creature, whose -wishes could be nothing but heavenly? -Who can say? Flesh and blood is not -made for such encounters: they were -more than I could bear. But nothing of -the kind has ever occurred again.</p> - -<p>Agnes had her peaceful domestic -throne established under the picture. -My father wished it to be so, and spent -his evenings there in the warmth and -light, instead of in the old library, in -the narrow circle cleared by our lamp -out of the darkness, as long as he lived. -It is supposed by strangers that the -picture on the wall is that of my wife; -and I have always been glad that it -should be so supposed. She who was -my mother, who came back to me and -became as my soul for three strange -moments and no more, but with whom -I can feel no credible relationship as -she stands there, has retired for me into -the tender regions of the unseen. She -has passed once more into the secret -company of those shadows, who can -only become real in an atmosphere fitted -to modify and harmonise all differences, -and make all wonders possible—the -light of the perfect day.—<cite>Blackwood's -Magazine.</cite></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2><a name="DELLA_CRUSCA_AND_ANNA_MATILDA" id="DELLA_CRUSCA_AND_ANNA_MATILDA">DELLA CRUSCA AND ANNA MATILDA:</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap"><small>An Episode in English Literature</small></span>.</h2> - -<p class="aut">BY ARMINE T. KENT.</p> - - - -<p>Most people are more or less vaguely -aware that there existed in England, -towards the end of the last century, a -school of poets, or poetasters, called -Della Cruscan; and Mrs. Oliphant not -long ago suggested, in her <cite>Literary History</cite>, -that a sketch of their eccentricities -might not be unamusing. I propose, -accordingly, for the edification of the -curious, to recount a few particulars of -the Della Cruscan writers, in the days of -their prosperity and the days of their -collapse. They were, let it at once be -admitted, a feeble and a frivolous folk; -yet I think that a moral may suggest itself -when their story has been told.</p> - -<p>In the year 1784 Mr. Robert Merry, a -bachelor of thirty, had been for some -years domiciled at Florence. That his -position and prospects were not of a -very definite order was owing to no defect -of nurture or opportunity. He had -been educated at Harrow, at the same -time as Sheridan, and afterwards at -Christ's College, Cambridge, and was -originally intended for the Bar. To -Lincoln's Inn he accordingly made a -pretence of belonging till the death of -his father, who was a Governor of the -Hudson's Bay Company; the family connection -with the North Seas being still -perpetuated in the name of Merry's -Island. Robert Merry at once took advantage -of the independence which came -to him on his father's death to abandon -the Bar and buy himself a commission -in the Guards. His liking for high play -and high society kept him, for a short -time, amused in his new position. He -grew, however, once more restless; wandered -on the Continent; and became, in -the phraseology of the day, a man of -letters and of leisure. His love of letters -he gratified, at Florence, by becoming -a member of the Italian Academy, -the Accademia della Crusca, and his -love of letters and leisure combined by -joining himself to an English society -who called themselves the “Oziosi,” -and, no doubt, took good care to merit -that designation.</p> - -<p>The leading spirit of this coterie was -no less a personage than Mrs. Piozzi, -happily married at last, and safely escaped -from the malice of her cold-blooded -daughters, and from the virulence -with which the English journals had inveighed -against her choice of a second -husband. Even now the memory of her -domestic troubles tended to inspire her -with a dejection which the master-pieces -of Florentine sculpture were, oddly -enough, powerless to remove. As she -herself described it, in lines at which -one cannot help smiling, sincere as they -perhaps were,—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">The slave and the wrestlers, what are they to me,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">From plots and contention removed?</div> - <div class="verse">And Job with still less satisfaction I see,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">When I think on the pains I have proved.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>The homage of her countrymen, however, -did much to enliven her despondency; -and she complacently records -in her journals some of the compliments -paid her by her fellow-members of the -“Oziosi.” They used to address her in -this style:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">E'en so when Parsons pours his lay,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Correctly wild, or sweetly strong,</div> - <div class="verse">Or Greathead charms the listening day,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">With English or Italian song,</div> - <div class="verse">Or when, with trembling wing I try,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Like some poor wounded bird, to fly,</div> - <div class="verse">Your fostering smiles you ne'er refuse,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">But are the Pallas and the Muse!</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>The Parsons and Greathead of this -all-round panegyric of Merry's were two -members of the “Oziosi” clique: Parsons, -a bachelor with a tendency to flirt, -to “trifle with Italian dames,” as Mrs. -Piozzi poetically put it; Greathead, the -newly-married husband of a beautiful -wife. Both Parsons and Greathead were -voluminous contributors to the society's -Album, which soon assumed formidable -dimensions. The staple of the contents -consisted of high-flown compliments in -verse. Parsons, for instance, would write -to Greathead's wife:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">O blest with taste, with Genius blest,</div> - <div class="verse">Sole mistress of thy Bertie's breast,</div> - <div class="verse">Who to his love-enraptured arms are given</div> - <div class="verse">The rich reward his virtues claim from Heaven.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>And Bertie, as in duty bound, would reply -in kind, bidding the sallow Arno -pause and listen to the lays of Parsons. -As an alternative to these panegyrics, -they wrote <cite>Dithyrambics to Bacchus</cite>, -<cite>Odes to the Siroc</cite>, or lines on that latest -novelty, Montgolfier's air-balloon. Mrs. -Greathead was, in fact, as Parsons informs -us, the only member of the society -who contributed nothing but the inspiration -of her charms.</p> - -<p>Some of these poems were printed in -an <cite>Arno Miscellany</cite>, of which only a few -copies were privately circulated. It was -a subsequent and larger collection, published -in 1785, under the name of <cite>The -Florence Miscellany</cite>, which first made -its way to England, and drew the attention -of the English public to the rising -school of versifiers. Horace Walpole -characterized their productions as -“mere imitations of our best poets,” -that is to say, of Milton, Gray, and -Collins. How justly, may be inferred -from the opening stanza of Merry's -<cite>Ode on a distant prospect of Rome</cite>:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">When Rome of old, terrific queen,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">High-placed on Victory's sounding car,</div> - <div class="verse">With arm sublime and martial mien,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">Brandished the flaming lance of war,</div> - <div class="verse">Low crouched in dust lay Afric's swarthy crowd,</div> - <div class="verse">And silken Asia sank, and barbarous Britain bowed.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>The imitations of Milton and Collins -are of a like description. Such as it was, -the book was a success, and samples of -its contents were reproduced, after the -fashion of the day, in the newspapers -and magazines—the <cite>Gentleman's</cite>, the -<cite>European</cite>, the <cite>Universal Magazine</cite>, and -so forth. Of the quality of the poems, -critically considered, and of the Della -Cruscan poetry generally, I shall have -something to say farther on. In the -meantime, it may, perhaps, be worth -while to disinter a ludicrous passage in -one of Merry's contributions to the -<cite>Florence Miscellany</cite>. The “Oziosi” -had one day agreed that each of them -should produce by the evening a story -or poem which should “excite horror -by description.” Mrs. Piozzi's production -will be found in her <cite>Autobiography</cite>, -and is by no means devoid of merit. -Merry brought a poem (“a very fine -one,” says Mrs. Piozzi), in which he introduced -the following remarkable ghost, -which I commend to the attention of the -new Psychical Society:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">While slow he trod this desolated coast,</div> - <div class="verse">From the cracked ground uprose a warning ghost;</div> - <div class="verse">Whose figure, all-confused, was dire to view,</div> - <div class="verse">And loose his mantle flowed, of shifting hue;</div> - <div class="verse"><em>He shed a lustre round; and sadly pressed</em></div> - <div class="verse"><em>What seemed his hand upon what seemed his breast</em>;</div> - <div class="verse"><em>Then raised his doleful voice, like wolves that roar</em></div> - <div class="verse"><em>In famished troops round Orcas' sleepy shore,</em>—</div> - <div class="verse">“Approach yon antiquated tower,” he cried,</div> - <div class="verse">“There bold Rinaldo, fierce Mambrino, died,” etc.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>But I must not linger over the <cite>Florence -Miscellany</cite>, which was but the prelude -to those melodious bursts which -filled the spacious times of George III. -with the music of Della Crusca and Anna -Matilda. A year or two after its publication -the Florence coterie broke up, -and returned to England.</p> - -<p>The first note of the concert was -struck by Robert Merry, who, in June -1787, sent to the <cite>World</cite> a poem entitled -<cite>The Adieu and Recall to Love</cite>, subscribing -himself Della Crusca, a nickname -which had been given to him at Florence, -on account of his connection, already -mentioned, with the Italian Academy. -The <cite>World</cite> was a daily morning paper, -price threepence, which in more than one -respect resembled its modern namesake. -A contemporary satirist, writing under -the modest pseudonym of “Horace Juvenal,” -describes how the young lady -of 1787—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Reluctant opes her eyes, 'twixt twelve and one,</div> - <div class="verse">To skim the <em>World</em>, or criticise the <em>Sun</em>,</div> - <div class="verse">And when she sees her darling friend abused</div> - <div class="verse">Is half enraged, yet more than half-amused.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>And another poet portrays two unlucky -baronets, Sir Gregory Turner and Sir -John Miller—husband of Lady Miller of -Bath Easton vase celebrity—lamenting -the ridicule with which the same newspaper -had overwhelmed them:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Woe wait the week, Sir John, and cursed the hour,</div> - <div class="verse">When harmless gentlemen felt satire's power,</div> - <div class="verse">When, raised from insignificance and sloth,</div> - <div class="verse">The <em>World</em> began to ridicule us both.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>“In this paper,” says Gifford, “were -given the earliest specimens of those -audacious attacks on all private character, -which the town first smiled at for -their quaintness, then tolerated for their -absurdity; and now that other papers, -equally wicked and more intelligible, -have ventured to imitate it, will have to -lament to the last hour of British liberty.” -That literary history is self-repeating, -and that prophecies are mostly -mistaken, are not new reflections; yet -it is difficult to avoid making them when -we compare those days with these.</p> - -<p>But beyond its function as a purveyor -of social gossip, no newspaper was then -considered complete without a Poet's -Corner, consecrated to sentimental effusions -and labored impromptus—“Complimentary -verses to the brilliancy of the -Hon. Mrs. N——h's Eyes,” or “Lines -on Lady T—e—l's Ring.” In publishing -his poem in the <cite>World</cite>, Della Crusca -did but select the natural and recognized -arena of the eighteenth-century poet. It -may be as well to quote the greater part -of <cite>The Adieu and Recall to Love</cite>, in order -to give some notion of the calibre -of the verses which were to found a -school:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Go, idle Boy, I quit thy bower,</div> - <div class="verse">The couch of many a thorn and flower;</div> - <div class="verse">Thy twanging bow, thine arrow keen,</div> - <div class="verse">Deceitful Beauty's timid mien;</div> - <div class="verse">The feigned surprise, the roguish leer,</div> - <div class="verse">The tender smile, the thrilling tear,</div> - <div class="verse">Have now no pangs, no joys for me,</div> - <div class="verse">So fare thee well, for I am free!</div> - <div class="verse">Then flutter hence on wanton wing,</div> - <div class="verse">Or lave thee in yon lucid spring,</div> - <div class="verse">Or take thy beverage from the rose,</div> - <div class="verse">Or on Louisa's breast repose;</div> - <div class="verse">I wish thee well for pleasures past,</div> - <div class="verse">Yet, bless the hour, I'm free at last,</div> - <div class="verse">But sure, methinks, the altered day</div> - <div class="verse">Scatters around a mournful ray;</div> - <div class="verse">And chilling every zephyr blows,</div> - <div class="verse">And every stream untuneful flows.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse"> - -<hr class="tb" /></div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Alas! is all this boasted ease</div> - <div class="verse">To lose each warm desire to please,</div> - <div class="verse">No sweet solicitude to know</div> - <div class="verse">For others' bliss, or others' woe,</div> - <div class="verse">A frozen apathy to find,</div> - <div class="verse">A sad vacuity of mind?</div> - <div class="verse">Oh, hasten back, then, heavenly Boy,</div> - <div class="verse">And with thine anguish bring thy joy!</div> - <div class="verse">Return with all thy torments here,</div> - <div class="verse">And let me hope, and doubt, and fear;</div> - <div class="verse">Oh, rend my heart with every pain,</div> - <div class="verse">But let me, let me love again.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>I suppose what will strike most readers -with regard to these lines is that they are -decidedly fluent, and utterly commonplace. -That, however, is not the light -in which a critic of the last quarter of -the eighteenth century would regard -them. Amid the dead level of sing-song -couplets, the milk-and-water decency -of Hayley, the chill and prolix -classicism of Pye, the ineffable mediocrity -of a thousand Pratts and Polwheles—the -fluency of Merry passed, according -to the critic's leanings, for fire or -for fustian; and the phraseology, which -afterwards became hackneyed, was then -startling. Take, for instance, Horace -Walpole's criticism of the new poetic -departure. “It is refreshing to read -natural easy poetry, full of sense and -humor, instead of that unmeaning, labored, -painted style now in fashion of -the Della Cruscas and Co., of which it -is impossible ever to retain a couplet, no -more than one could remember how a -string of emeralds and rubies were -placed in a necklace. Poetry has great -merit if it is the vehicle and preservative -of sense, but it is not to be taken in -change for it.” Poetry the vehicle and -preservative of sense—that is the critical -canon which would have made Walpole -as blind to Della Crusca's merits, had -he happened to possess any, as it made -him keen-sighted for his defects.</p> - -<p>It may, nevertheless, be doubted -whether Della Crusca would have caused -so great a stir in literature, had it not -been for several collateral circumstances, -of which the first and most important -was the appearance in the <cite>World</cite>, some -ten days later, of “Anna Matilda,” -with a poem entitled <cite>To Della Crusca, -the Pen</cite>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Oh, seize again thy golden quill,</div> - <div class="verse">And with its point my bosom thrill,</div> - <div class="verse">With magic touch explore my heart,</div> - <div class="verse">And bid the tear of passion start.</div> - <div class="verse">Thy golden quill Apollo gave,</div> - <div class="verse">Drenched first in bright Aonia's wave.</div> - <div class="verse">He snatched it fluttering through the sky,</div> - <div class="verse">Borne on the vapor of a sigh;</div> - <div class="verse">It fell from Cupid's burnished wing</div> - <div class="verse">As forcefully he drew the string,</div> - <div class="verse">Which sent his keenest, surest dart,</div> - <div class="verse">Through a rebellious, frozen heart,</div> - <div class="verse">That had, till then, defied his power,</div> - <div class="verse">And vacant beat through each dull hour.</div> - <div class="verse">Be worthy, then, the sacred loan!</div> - <div class="verse">Seated on Fancy's air-built throne;</div> - <div class="verse">Immerse it in her rainbow hues,</div> - <div class="verse">Nor, what the Godheads bid, refuse.</div> - <div class="verse">Apollo Cupid shall inspire,</div> - <div class="verse">And aid thee with their blended fire;</div> - <div class="verse">The one poetic language give,</div> - <div class="verse">The other bid thy passion live,</div> - <div class="verse">With soft ideas fill thy lays,</div> - <div class="verse">And crown with Love thy wintry days!</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>The shuttlecock of correspondence, -thus fairly started, was diligently tossed -to and fro in the <cite>World</cite> by the two -pseudonymous writers; Della Crusca -“seized his quill” again and again, and -his ideal passion for the invisible Anna -Matilda gained in fervor of expression -with every fortnight. It is obvious that -here was just that element of mystery, -of romance, which creates a <em>furore</em> and -sets a fashion.</p> - -<p>The lady who signed herself “Anna -Matilda” was Mrs. Hannah Cowley, -the wife of an absent East India captain, -then in her forty-fifth year, and -known to-day as the authoress of the -<cite>Belle's Stratagem</cite>, a play which still, and -deservedly, keeps the stage. Her biographer -records the beginning of her literary -career as follows: “In the year -1776, some years after her marriage, a -sense of power for dramatic writing suddenly -struck her whilst sitting with her -husband at the theatre. 'So delighted -with this?' said she to him; 'why, I -could write as well myself.' She then -wrote <cite>The Runaway</cite>. Many will recollect -the extraordinary success with which -it was brought out.” Her habits of composition -were not, perhaps, likely to result -in poetry of much excellence. -“Catching up her pen immediately as -the thought struck her, she always proceeded -with the utmost facility and celerity. -Her pen and paper were so immediately -out of sight again, that those -around her could scarcely tell when it -was she wrote. She was always much -pleased with the description of Michael -Angelo making the marble fly around -him, as he was chiselling with the utmost -swiftness, that he might shape, however -roughly, his whole design in unity with -one clear conception.” Her preparatory -note to her collected “Anna Matilda” -poems bears out this account. “The -beautiful lines of <cite>The Adieu and Recall -to Love</cite> struck her so forcibly that, -without rising from the table at which -she read, she answered them. Della -Crusca's elegant reply surprised her into -another, and thus the correspondence -most unexpectedly became settled. -Anna Matilda's share in it had little to -boast; but she has one claim of which -she is proud, that of having been the -first to point out the excellence of Della -Crusca; if there can be merit in discerning -what is so very obvious.” She further -apologizes for one of her poems to -Della Crusca, on the ground that it was -written while sitting for her portrait, the -painter interrupting her with “Smile a -little,” or “More to the right.” Only -that class of mind which grows incredulous -when informed that orators prepare -their speeches, will expect much from -such methods of workmanship.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, to Mrs. Cowley appears -to belong the credit, or discredit, -of giving to the Della Cruscan poetry a -certain turn or development which did -much to make it popular. A hint of -this development may be seen in the description -of the pen, which was “borne -on the vapor of a sigh.” It took final -shape in such phrases as these:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Hushed be each ruder note! Soft silence spread</div> - <div class="verse">With ermine hand thy cobweb robe around.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent6">Was it the shuttle of the Morn,</div> - <div class="verse indent6">That wove upon the cobweb'd thorn</div> - <div class="verse indent6">Thy airy lay?</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent4">Or in the gaudy spheroids swell</div> - <div class="verse indent4">Which the swart Indian's groves illume.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent2">Gauzy zephyrs fluttering o'er the plain,</div> - <div class="verse indent2">In Twilight's bosom drop their filmy rain.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent6">Bid the streamy lightnings fly</div> - <div class="verse indent6">In liquid peril from thine eye.</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent10">Summer tints begemmed the scene,</div> - <div class="verse indent4">And silky ocean slept in glossy green.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>A large and amusing assortment of -this ambitious verbiage, which subsequently -became in the eyes of the critics -the sole “differentia” of Della Cruscan -verse, may be seen in the notes to -Gifford's <cite>Baviad</cite>. It was, however, an -after-development, proceeding from a -gradual consciousness of flagging powers; -the feeling which induced Charles -Reade's Triplet to “shove his pen under -the thought, and lift it by polysyllables -to the true level of fiction.”</p> - -<p>The other members of the Florence -coterie, who, as I have said, were now -back in England, speedily began to swell -the Della Cruscan chorus in the columns -of the <cite>World</cite> and the <cite>Oracle</cite>. Bertie -Greathead as “Reuben” became Della -Crusca's rival, on paper, in the affections -of Anna Matilda; and Parsons, -signing himself “Benedict,” in memory -of a sojourn in the Benedictine convent -of Vallombrosa, deluged with sonnets -an imaginary Melissa. Whether Mrs. -Piozzi contributed anything beyond tea-party -patronage, appears to be doubtful; -but, as was only to be expected, -London already possessed a score of indigenous -rhymesters, eager to pursue -the triumph and partake the gale. One -of the principal of these was Edward -Jerningham, <em>alias</em> “The Bard,” who is -commemorated in Macaulay's neat sentence: -“Lady Miller who kept a vase -wherein fools were wont to put verses, -and Jerningham who wrote verses fit to -be put into the vase of Lady Miller.” -His brother, Sir William, of Cossy Hall, -in Norfolk, kept an album which rivalled -in celebrity the vase of Bath Easton, -and “The Bard” had been a determined -poetaster for the last thirty years. -He is described as “a mighty gentleman, -who looks to be painted, and is all -daintification in manner, speech, and -dress, singing to his own accompaniment -on the harp, whilst he looks the -gentlest of all dying Corydons.” Fashionable -poets seldom suffer from lack of -appreciation. Burke wrote of Jerningham's -poem <cite>The Shakespeare Gallery</cite>, -“I have not for a long time seen anything -so well finished. The author has -caught new fire by approaching in his -perihelion so near to the sun of our poetical -system.” I think we may be certain, -after reading <cite>The Shakespeare Gallery</cite>, -that the patron of Crabbe did not -read it.</p> - -<p>Another Della Cruscan songstress was -Mrs. Robinson, <em>alias</em> “Laura Maria,” -known to the public as a former mistress -of the Prince of Wales, and authoress -of various novels. In rapidity of -composition she emulated Mrs. Cowley. -“Conversing one evening with Mr. -Richard Burke” (the Burke family appear -to have been sometimes unfortunate -in their poetical acquaintances) “respecting -the facility with which modern -poetry was composed, Mrs. Robinson -repeated nearly the whole of those beautiful -lines, 'To him who will understand -them.' This improvisatore produced in -her auditor not less surprise than admiration, -when solemnly assured by its -author that this was the first time of its -being repeated. Mr. Burke entreated -her to commit the poem to writing, a request -which was readily complied with; -and Mrs. Robinson had afterwards the -gratification of finding this offspring of -her genius inserted in the <cite>Annual Register</cite>, -with a flattering encomium from -the pen of the eloquent and ingenious -editor.” She was one of Merry's most -ardent admirers.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Winged Ages picture to the dazzled view</div> - <div class="verse">Each marked perfection of the sacred few,</div> - <div class="verse">Pope, Dryden, Spenser, all that Fame shall raise,</div> - <div class="verse">From Chaucer's gloom, till Merry's lucid days.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Her Della Cruscan poems were published -under the signature of “Laura,” -and she was followed by Cesario, Carlos, -Adelaide, Orlando, Arno, and fifty more -whose identity can no longer be determined.</p> - - - -<p>A year after his first appearance in -the <cite>World</cite>, Della Crusca printed his -poems in a volume, and Anna Matilda -speedily followed suit. But this was -not enough for the reading public. -They further greedily absorbed a collection -of Della Cruscan verse, published -as <cite>The Poetry of the “World,”</cite> by Major -Topham, the creator and editor of that -paper, who, in a dedication to Sheridan, -observes: “Of their merit, I am free -to say I know no modern poems their -superior. I am more happy that your -opinion has confirmed mine.” It will -be well to make allowance for changing -literary fashions before we make too -sure that Sheridan is here misrepresented. -<cite>The Poetry of the “World”</cite> afterwards -ran through at least four editions -as <cite>The British Album</cite>. As we read the -publisher's advertisement of this work, -which still abounds on second-hand -bookstalls—<i lang="la">immorimur studiis lapsoque -renascimur ævo</i>—we seem to be walking -in the Bond Street of the Prince Regent. -“Two beautiful volumes this day published, -embellished with genuine portraits -of the real Della Crusca and Anna -Matilda, engraved in a very superior -manner from faithful pictures, under the -title of <cite>The British Album</cite>, being a new -edition, revised and corrected by their -respective authors, of the celebrated -poems of Della Crusca, Anna Matilda, -Arley, Laura, Benedict, and the elegant -Cesario, “the African Boy;” and others, -signed The Bard, by Mr. Jerningham; -General Conway's elegy on Miss C. -Campbell; Marquis of Townshend's -verses on Miss Gardiner; Lord Derby's -lines on Miss Farren's portrait.” It is -unfortunate that the only pseudonym in -the list which it is of much interest to -decipher, should still remain a mystery. -It is to “Arley” that we owe the admittedly -excellent ballad of “Wapping old -Stairs,” which first appeared in the -<cite>World</cite> for November 29th, 1787, and -shines, a solitary pearl, in the pages of -the <cite>British Album</cite>.</p> - -<p>The Della Cruscan mania was at its -height—“bedridden old women and -girls at their samplers began to rave,”—when -Gifford, in search of a quarry for -a seasonable satire, came before the -town with the <cite>Baviad</cite>. Of this poem I -shall say but little, as it is better known -than the writings which it satirised. It -contains passages of a certain coarse and -rank vigor not difficult of attainment by -a student of Dryden and Juvenal. -There is, in fact, a sort of Billingsgate -raciness about the <cite>Baviad</cite>; and the -notes, which are better written than the -poem, contain much amusing matter. -The imputation made against the Della -Cruscan love-poetry of licentious warmth -is, however, wholly absurd—as absurd -as the charge made by Mathias, the author -of <cite>The Pursuits of Literature</cite>, that -Merry—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Proves a designer works without design,</div> - <div class="verse">And fathoms Nature with a Gallic line;</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>a notion which arose merely from the -fact that he identified himself with the -anarchists of France, and wrote odes -for the Revolution Society, thereby acquiring -the name, as Madame d'Arblay -tells us, of “Liberty Merry,” and no -doubt also the reputation for free-thinking -then associated with everything -French. As for detecting any breach -of decorum in the mannered and falsetto -gallantries of insincere Reubens addressing -imaginary Annas, the idea was only -possible to a satirist who started with -the determination to fling all the mud -he could find; and, it must be added, -when he flung it at irreproachable characters -such as Mrs. Piozzi, he did but -excite a certain revulsion of sympathy -for the victims. Nor was this Gifford's -only misrepresentation. He asserted, -in order to bring in an apt quotation -from Martial, that the interview which -finally took place between Merry and -Mrs. Cowley, produced mutual disgust. -This is not the testimony of Della Crusca -himself in the poem of <cite>The Interview</cite>.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">My song subsides, yet ere I close</div> - <div class="verse">The lingering lay that feeds my woes,</div> - <div class="verse">Ere yet forgotten Della Crusca runs</div> - <div class="verse">To torrid gales or petrifying suns,</div> - <div class="verse">Ere, bowed to earth, my latest feeling flies,</div> - <div class="verse">And the big passion settles on my eyes;</div> - <div class="verse">Oh, may this sacred sentiment be known,</div> - <div class="verse">That my adoring heart is Anna's own!</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Such is the immortality of poetic attachments—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">For ever wilt thou love and she be fair.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>That the poet was shortly afterward -“married to another,” is sufficient to -explain the cessation of the correspondence, -from which Gifford argues that -the interview resulted in aversion. And -he might further have reflected that -when a poet is reduced to talk of “petrifying -suns” his correspondence has -been known to cease for lack of ideas.</p> - -<p>The satirised poets did their best to -retaliate on Gifford by abusive sonnets -in the newspapers; and Mr. Jerningham -wrote a feebly vituperative poem on -Gifford and Mathias. The Della Cruscans -had, undeniably, the worst of the -battle. The efficacy of Gifford's satire -in putting an end to the school is, however, -more than doubtful. It is true -that it afterwards came to be considered, -naturally enough, that he had given the -Della Cruscans their death-blow. Scott, -for instance, writing in 1827, observes -that the <cite>Baviad</cite> “squabashed at one -blow a set of coxcombs who might have -humbugged the world long enough”; -but that is not the evidence of contemporary -witnesses. Seven years after the -publication of the <cite>Baviad</cite>, Mathias, in -the preface to <cite>The Pursuits of Literature</cite>, -remarks that “even the <cite>Baviad</cite> -drops from Mr. Gifford's pen have -fallen off like oils from the plumage of -the Florence and Cruscan geese. I am -told that Mr. Greathead and Mr. Merry -yet write and speak, and Mr. Jerningham -(poor man!) still continues 'sillier -than his sheep.”</p> - -<p>This statement is in far better accordance -both with the facts and the probabilities -of the case. Satire, even first-rate -satire, does not kill follies. They -gradually die of inanition, or are crowded -out by newer fashions. Laura Matilda's -dirge in the <cite>Rejected Addresses</cite> is -a standing monument of the vitality of -Della Cruscanism more than twenty -years after its supposed death-blow.</p> - -<p>The career as stage-writers of Merry, -Greathead, and Jerningham, their bad -tragedies and bad farces, do not belong -to my present subject. Of the subsequent -history of one or two of them a -word may, however, be said. Jerningham -lived to publish, as late as 1812, -two editions of a flaccid poem, called -<cite>The Old Bard's Farewell</cite>, after which -he disappears from life and literature. -Mrs. Cowley, perhaps the most interesting -of the group, died in rural and religious -retirement at Tiverton, in 1809. -Mrs. Piozzi, as is well known, outlived -all her contemporaries, and witnessed -the popularity of a modern literature of -which she had no very high opinion.</p> - -<p>As for Della Crusca, he married, in -1791, Miss Brunton, an actress, whose -sister became Countess of Craven, and -who had played the heroine in his tragedy -of <cite>Lorenzo</cite>. His reply to the remonstrances -of his aunt on the <i lang="fr">mésalliance</i> -shall be quoted, to show that he -had his lucid intervals. “She ought,” -he said, “to be proud that he had -brought a woman of such virtue and talents -into the family. Her virtue his -marrying her proved; and her talents -would all be thrown away by taking her -off the stage.” Nevertheless, he afterwards -weakly yielded to his relations, -and withdrew her from the stage against -her own inclination, thereby depriving -himself of a source of income with -which, as a gambler and <i lang="fr">bon vivant</i>, he -could ill afford to dispense. He accordingly -quitted England, and must have -betaken himself to France, an adventure -which befell him in Paris, in September, -1792, being thus amusingly given by -Horace Walpole:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>In the midst of the massacre of Monday last, -Mr. Merry, immortalized, not by his verses, -but by those of the <cite>Baviad</cite>, was mistaken for -the Abbé Maury, and was going to be hoisted -to the <i lang="fr">lanterne</i>. He cried out that he was -Merry, the poet: the ruffians, who probably -had never read the scene in Shakespeare, yet -replied, “Then we will hang you for your bad -verses”; but he escaped better than Cinna, I -don't know how, and his fright cost him but a -few “gossamery tears,” and I suppose he will -be happy to re-cross the “silky ocean,” and -shed dolorous nonsense in rhyme over the -woes of <em>this</em> happy country.</p></blockquote> - -<p>But England was not to see much -more of Merry. English society was -probably not so kind to the Radical husband -of an actress as it had been to the -bachelor of fashion. He withdrew, with -his wife, to America, in 1796, and died, -three years afterwards, of apoplexy, in -his garden at Baltimore.</p> - -<p>Merry did not fail to find in his own -day apologists of some pretensions to -taste. I find in the notes to George -Dyer's poem, <cite>The Poet's Fate</cite>, published -in 1797—which contains early and interesting -laudations not only of his school-fellows -Lamb and Coleridge, but also of -Wordsworth and Southey—the following -reference to Merry:—“But, after -all, though the hero of the <cite>Baviad</cite> betrayed -glitter and negligence—though -he misled the taste of some, too much -inclined to admire and imitate defects, -yet Merry's writings possess poetical -merits; and the spirit of liberty and -benevolence which breathes through -them is ardent and sincere.” The criticism -may be incorrect, but it is worth -noting, because it is the criticism of a -contemporary. Had it not been for -Coleridge's fervently expressed admiration -for Bowles's sonnets, which so perplexes -critics who do not judge literature -from a historical point of view, the -world would have continued to sneer at -him, with Byron, as “simple Bowles,” -and to know him only by Byron's line. -The fact is, literary history will never -be intelligently written, till it is studied -in the spirit of the naturalist, to whom -the tares are as interesting as the wheat. -We may, perhaps, give the Della Cruscans, -with their desperate strainings after -poetic fire and poetic diction, the -credit of having done something to shake -the supremacy of versified prose; of -having forwarded, however feebly, the -poetic emancipation which Wordsworth -and Coleridge were to consummate. -The false extravagance of Della Crusca -may have cleared the way for the truthful -extravagance of Keats. It is, I am -aware, customary to attribute the regeneration -of English poetry to the French -Revolution, which “shook up the -sources of thought all over Europe,” -but the critics who use these glib catch-words -are in no hurry to point out a -concrete chain of logical connection between -Paris mobs and sequestered poets. -Plain judges will ever consider it a far -cry from <cite>The Rights of Man</cite> to <cite>Christabel</cite>. -At all events, Dyer was right in -deprecating the savagery of Gifford's -satire. The question</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>will apply to other schools and fashions -besides that of the “elegant Cesario's,” -whom Leigh Hunt designated <i lang="fr">par excellence</i> -as “the plague of the Butterflies.” -And here, I think, we touch upon the -moral which I promised at the outset.</p> - -<p>It is not very long since the country, -to which Della Crusca ultimately betook -himself, received to her shores the reputed -prophet of Æstheticism, whose -career, in other respects, presented remarkable -parallels with that of Robert -Merry. Each made his poetical appearance -in the columns of a newspaper -called the <cite>World</cite>; each professed Republican -opinions; each wrote poems -not remarkable for truth to nature or -sobriety of diction; each represented a -school; and the name of each became -as a red rag to the Giffords who played -the part of the bull in the china shop. -But it is not with this clumsy rage that -posterity will regard our follies; nor is -it useful, or desirable, that we should -now so regard them. It is with a smile -of amused anticipation, it is with a -bland and philosophic interest, that the -antiquarian of the future will turn to -the pages of <cite>Punch</cite> or the libretto of -<cite>Patience</cite>, to read of the Anna Matildas -who lately delighted to apparel themselves -in what Bramston called “shape-disguising -sacks”—the Della Cruscas -who took Postlethwaite for a great poet.—<cite>National -Review.</cite></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2><a name="THE_SAVAGE" id="THE_SAVAGE">THE SAVAGE.</a></h2> - -<p class="aut">BY PROF. F. MAX MÜLLER.</p> - - -<p>There are people in the world who are -very fond of asking what they call point-blank -questions. They generally profess -to hate all shilly-shallying, and they are -at no pains to hide their suspicion that -anyone who declines to say yes or no -to any question which they choose to ask -has either his intellect clouded by metaphysics -or has not the courage of his -opinions. The idea that it is often more -difficult to ask a sensible question than -to answer it, and that a question, however -pointed it may sound, may for all -that be so blunt and vague that no -accurate and honest thinker would care -or dare to answer it, never enters their -mind; while the thought that there are -realms of knowledge where indefinite -language is more appropriate, and in -reality more exact and more truthful -than the most definite phraseology, is -scouted as mere fencing and intellectual -cowardice.</p> - -<p>One of those point-blank questions -which has been addressed to me by -several reviewers of my books is this, -“Tell us, do you hold that man began as -a savage or not?” To say that man -began as a savage, and that the most -savage and degraded races now existing -present us with the primeval type of man, -seems to be the shibboleth of a certain -school of thought, a school with which -on many points I sympathize, so long as -it keeps to an accurate and independent -inquiry into facts, and to an outspoken -statement of its discoveries, regardless -of all consequences, but from which I -totally dissent as soon as it tries to make -facts subservient to theories. I am told -that my own utterances on this subject -have been ambiguous. Now even granting -this, I could never understand why -a certain hesitation in answering so difficult -a question should rouse such angry -feelings, till it began to dawn on me -that those who do not unreservedly -admit that man began as a savage are -supposed to hold that man was created -a perfect and almost angelic being. -This would amount to denying the gospel -of the day, that man was the offspring -of a brute, and hence, I suppose, -the Anathema.</p> - -<p>Now I may say this, that though I -have hesitated to affirm that man began -as a savage, whatever that may mean, I -have been even more careful not to commit -myself to the opinion that man began -as an angel, or as a child, or as a -perfect rational being. I strongly object -to such alternatives as that if man -did not begin as a savage he must have -begun as a child. It would be dreadful -if, because there is no sufficient evidence -to enable us to form a decided opinion -on any given subject, we were to be -driven into a corner by such alternatives, -instead of preserving our freedom -of judgment until we have the complete -evidence before us.</p> - -<p>But in our case the evidence is as yet -extremely scanty, and, from the nature -of the case, will probably always remain -so. If we want to prove that man began -as a child, what evidence can we produce? -If we appealed to history, history -is impossible before the invention -of language; and what language could -the primitive child have spoken, what -life could it have lived, without a father -and without a mother? If we give up -history and appeal to our inner consciousness, -our reason, nay, our very -imagination, collapses when approaching -the problem how such a child could have -been born, how such a child could have -been nourished, reared, and protected -from wild animals and other dangers. -We feel we have come to the end of our -tether, and are running our head against -a very old, but a very solid, wall.</p> - -<p>Has Kant then written in vain; and -is it still supposed that our senses or our -reason can ever reach transcendent -truths? Has the lesson to be taught -again and again that both our senses and -our reason have their limits; that we are -indeed tethered, and that it is no proof -of intellectual strength or suppleness to -try to stand on our own shoulders? We -are so made that neither can our senses -perceive nor can our reason conceive -the real beginning and end of anything, -whether in space or in time. And yet -we imagine we can form a definite conception -of the true beginning of mankind.</p> - -<p>Then what remains? There remains -the humbler and yet far nobler task of -studying the earliest records of man's -life on earth: to go back as far as literature, -language, and tools will allow us, -and for a time to consider that as primitive -which, whether as a tool, or as a -word, or as a proverb, or as a prayer, is -the last we can reach, and seems at the -same time so simple, so rational, so intelligible, -as to require no further antecedents. -That is the true work of the -historian, and of the philosopher too; -and there is plenty of work left for both -of them before they dive into the whirlpool -of their inner consciousness to find -there the primordial savage.</p> - -<p>Instead of allowing ourselves to be -driven into a corner by such a question -as “Did man begin as a savage or as a -child?” we have a perfect right to ask -the question, What is meant by these two -words, <em>savage</em> and <em>child</em>?</p> - -<p>Has any one ever attempted to define -the meaning of savage, and to draw a -sharp line between a savage and a non-savage? -Has any one ever attempted to -define the meaning of child, if used in -opposition to savage or brute? Have -we been told whether by child is meant a -suckling without a mother, or a boy who -can speak, and count, and reason without -a father? Lastly, are savage and child -really terms that mutually exclude each -other? May not a savage be a child, -and may not a child be a savage?</p> - -<p>How, then, is any one who has given -serious thought to the problem of the -origin of mankind to answer such a question -as “Tell me, do you hold that man -began as a savage or as a child?”</p> - -<p>When we read some of the more recent -works on anthropology, the primordial -savage seems to be not unlike one of those -hideous india-rubber dolls that can be -squeezed into every possible shape, and -made to utter every possible noise. -There was a time when the savage was -held up to the civilised man as the inhabitant -of a lost paradise—a being -of innocence, simplicity, purity, and -nobility. Rousseau ascribed to his son -of nature all the perfection which he -looked for in vain in Paris and London. -At present, when so many philosophers -are on the lookout for the missing-link -between man and beast, the savage, even -if he has established his right to the -name of man, cannot be painted black -enough. He must be at least a man who -maltreats his women, murders his children, -kills and eats his fellow-creatures, -and commits crimes from which even animals -would shrink.</p> - -<p>This devil-savage, however, of the -present anthropologist is as much a wild -creation of scientific fancy as the angel-savage -of former philosophers. The -true Science of Man has no room for -such speculations.</p> - -<p>Sometimes the history of a name can -take the place of its definition, but this -is hardly so in our case. The Greeks -spoke of barbarians rather than of -savages, and the Romans followed their -example, though they might possibly -have called the national heroes and sages -of Germany and Britain not only <i lang="la">barbari</i> -but <i lang="la">feri</i>—that is, savages not very -far removed from <i lang="la">feræ</i>, or wild beasts. -Our own word <em>savage</em>, and the French -<i lang="fr">sauvage</i>, meant originally a man who -lived in the woods, a <i lang="la">silvaticus</i>. It was -at first applied to all who remained outside -the cities, who were not <i lang="la">cives</i>, or -civilised, and who in Christian times -were also called <em>heathen</em>—that is, dwellers -on the heath.</p> - -<p>But all this does not help us much. -Of course the Spaniards called the inhabitants -of America savages, though it -is now quite generally conceded that the -Spanish conquerors supplanted a higher -civilisation than they established.<a id="FNanchor_10_10" href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">10</a> The -first discoverers of India called the -naked Brahmans savages, though they -could hardly have followed them in their -subtle arguments on every possible -philosophical topic. Even by us New -Zealanders and Zulus are classed as -savages. And yet a Zulu proved a -match for an English bishop; and some -of the Maori poems and proverbs may -rightly claim a place by the side of -English popular poems and proverbs. -Nothing is gained if it is said that a -savage is the opposite of a civilised man. -Civilisation is the product of the uninterrupted -work of many generations; and -if savage meant no more than an uncivilised -man, it is no great discovery to -say that the first man must have been a -savage. No doubt he could not have -been acquainted even with what we consider -the fundamental elements of civilisation, -such as the arts of reading, writing, -and arithmetic. His dress must -have been very scanty, his food very -primitive, his dwelling very uncomfortable, -his family life very unrestrained. -And yet, for all that, he might have been -very far removed from the brute; nay, -he might have been a perfect man, doing -his duty in that state of life into which it -pleased God to call him.</p> - -<p>Civilisation, as it is well known, is as -vague a term as savagery. When Alexander, -the pupil of Aristotle, the representative -of Greek civilisation, stood before -the naked philosophers of India, -who were ὑλόβιοι dwellers in the forest, -can we hesitate to say which of the two -was the true savage and which the sage? -To the New Zealander who has been -brought into contact with European -civilisation, his former so-called savage -life seems to have gained little by recent -improvements. A grand Maori chief, -reputed to have been one of the strongest -men in his youth, thus speaks of the old -days:<a id="FNanchor_11_11" href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">11</a>—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>In former times we lived differently; each -tribe had its territory; we lived in <i>pas</i> placed -high upon the mountains. The men looked to -war as their only occupation, and the women -and the young people cultivated the fields. -We were a strong and a healthy people then. -When the Pakeha came, everything began to -die away, even the natural animals of the country. -Formerly, when we went into a forest, -and stood under a tree, we could not hear ourselves -speak for the noise of the birds—every -tree was full of them. Then we had pigeons -and everything in plenty; now many of the -birds have died out.... In those times the -fields were well tilled, there was always plenty -of provisions, and we wore few clothes—only -our own mats of feathers. Then the missionaries -came and took our children from the -fields, and taught them to sing hymns: they -changed their minds, and the fields were untilled. -The children came home and quoted -Gospel on an empty stomach. Then came the -war between the Pakeha and the Maori that -split up our homes, and made one tribe fight -against the other; and after the war came the -Pakeha settlers, who took our lands, taught us -to drink and to smoke, and made us wear -clothes that brought on disease. What race -could stand against them? The Maori is passing -away like the <i lang="mi">Kiwi</i>, the <i lang="mi">Tui</i>, and many -other things, and by-and-by they will disappear -just like the leaves of the trees, and nothing -will remain to tell of them but the names of -their mountains and their rivers!</p></blockquote> - -<p>This is the view which a so-called -savage takes of the benefits of European -civilisation as contrasted with the contentment -and happiness in which his -forefathers had passed through this life. -Let us now hear what a highly educated -American, a scholar and a philosopher, -Mr. Morgan, says of the character of the -Iroquois, who are often quoted as specimens -of extreme savagery:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>No test of friendship was too severe; no -sacrifice to repay a favor too great; no fidelity -to an engagement too inflexible for the red -man. With an innate knowledge of the freedom -and dignity of man, he has exhibited the -noblest virtues of the heart, and the kindest -deeds of humanity, in those sylvan retreats we -are wont to look upon as vacant and frightful -solitudes.</p></blockquote> - -<p>No one would suspect Morgan of exaggeration -or sentimentality. And if it -should be objected that these were private -virtues only, and no proof of true -civilisation or a well-organised society -among the Iroquois, the same writer tells -us:<a id="FNanchor_12_12" href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">12</a>—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>They achieved for themselves a more remarkable -civil organisation, and acquired a higher -degree of influence, than any other race of Indian -lineage, except those of Mexico and Peru. -In the drama of European colonisation they -stood for nearly two centuries with an unshaken -front against the devastations of war, -the blighting influence of foreign intercourse, -and the still more fatal encroachments of a -restless and advancing border population. -Under their federal system, the Iroquois flourished -in independence, and were capable of -self-protection long after the New England and -Virginia races had surrendered their jurisdictions -and fallen into the condition of dependent -nations; and they now stand forth upon -the canvas of Indian history, prominent alike -for the wisdom of their civil institutions, their -sagacity in the administration of the league, -and their courage in its defence.</p></blockquote> - -<p>The words of another author also may -be quoted, who tells us:<a id="FNanchor_13_13" href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">13</a>—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>Their legislation was simple, and the penalties -which gave law its sanctions well defined. -Their league stood in the consent of the governed. -It was a representative popular government, -conceived in the wisdom of genuine -statesmanship, and with the sagacity to provide -against some of the dangers which beset popular -institutions. It is said that the framers of -our own (the American) government borrowed -some of its features from the Iroquois league. -Whether or not this be true, it is a matter of -history that as early as 1755 a suggestion came -from the Iroquois nation to the colonies that -they should unite in a confederacy like their -own for mutual protection.</p></blockquote> - -<p>It is the fashion to quote against these -favorable statements cases of cruelty -committed by the Red Indians or the -New Zealanders in their wars among -themselves and in their resistance to -their white enemies. But let us not forget -the bloody pages of our own history. -We should probably say that the eighteenth -century was one of the most brilliant -in the history of Europe. We -should probably assign to England at -that time a foremost place among -European countries, and we know how -high a position Scotchmen took during -the last century in general culture, in -philosophy, in science, and statesmanship. -Yet, in his “History of England -in the Eighteenth Century,” Mr. -Lecky describes the common people of -Scotland as broken into fierce clans, -ruled by wild chieftains; as thieves and -cattle-lifters, kidnappers of men and -children to be sold as slaves; as -ferocious barbarians, besotted with the -most brutal ignorance, and the grossest -and gloomiest superstitions, possessed of -the rudest modes of agriculture, scratching -the earth with a crooked piece of -wood for a plough, and for a harrow a -brush attached to the tail of a horse, -otherwise devoid of harness; their food, -oatmeal and milk, mixed with blood -drawn from the living cow; their cooking, -revolting and filthy, boiling their -beef in the hide, and roasting fowls in -their feathers, with many like customs -and demoralising habits unknown to -aboriginal life among the Red Indians.</p> - -<p>It will be clear after these few specimens, -which might have been considerably -increased, that we shall make no -step in advance if we continue to use the -word savage so vaguely as it has been -hitherto used. To think is difficult, but -it becomes utterly impossible if we use -debased or false coin. I have been considered -too inquisitive for venturing to -ask anthropologists what they meant by -a fetish, but I must expose myself once -more to the same reproach by venturing -to ask them to state plainly what they -mean by a savage.</p> - -<p>Whatever other benefits a study of the -science of language may confer, there is -one which cannot be valued too highly—namely, -that it makes us not only look -<em>at</em> words, but <em>through</em> words. If we are -told that a savage means an uncivilised -man, then, to say that the first man was -a savage is saying either nothing or what -is self-evident. Civilisation consists in -the accumulated wisdom of countless -generations of men, and to say that the -first generation of men was uncivilised -is therefore pure tautology. We are far -too tolerant with respect to such tautologies. -How many people, for instance, -have been led to imagine that such a -phrase as the survival of the fittest -contains the solution of the problem of -the survival of certain species and the -extinction of others? To the student -of language the survival of the fittest is -a mere tautology, meaning the survival -of the fittest to survive, which is the -statement of a fact, but no solution of it.</p> - -<p>It is easy to say that the meaning of -savage has been explained and defined -by almost every writer on anthropology. -I know these explanations and definitions, -but not one of them can be considered -as answering the requirements -of a scientific definition.</p> - -<p>Some anthropologists say that savage -means wild and cruel. But in that case -no nation would be without its savages. -Others say that savages are people -who wear little or no clothing. But in -that case the greatest philosophers, the -gymnosophists of India, would have to -be classed as savages. If it means people -without a settled form of government, -without laws and without a religion, -then, go where you like, you will not -find such a race. Again, if people who -have no cities and no central government -are to be called savages, then the -Jews would have been savages, the -Hindus, the Arabs, the ancient Germans, -and other of the most important -races in the history of the world. In -fact, whatever characteristics are brought -forward as distinctive of a savage, they -can always be met by counter-instances, -showing that each definition would -either include races whom no one dares -to call savage, or exclude races whom no -one dares to call civilised. It used to -be imagined that the use of letters was -the principal circumstance that distinguishes -a civilised people from a herd of -savages incapable of knowledge or reflection. -Without that artificial help, to -quote the words of Gibbon, “the human -memory soon dissipates or corrupts the -ideas committed to her charge, and the -nobler faculties of the mind, no longer -supplied with models or with materials, -gradually forget their powers, the judgment -becomes feeble and lethargic, -the imagination languid or irregular.” -Such arguments might pass in the days -of Gibbon, but after the new light that -has been thrown on the ancient history -of some of the principal nations of the -world they are no longer tenable.</p> - -<p>No one would call the ancient Brahmans -savages, and yet writing was unknown -to them before the third century -<span class="smcap">B.C.</span> Homer, quite apart from his blindness, -was certainly unacquainted with -writing for literary purposes. The ancient -inhabitants of Germany, as described -by Tacitus, were equally ignorant -of the art of writing as a vehicle of -literature; yet for all that we could not -say, with Gibbon, that with them the -nobler faculties of the mind had lost -their powers, the judgment had become -feeble, and the imagination languid.</p> - -<p>And as we find that the use of letters -is by no means an indispensable element -of true civilisation, we should arrive -at the same conclusion in examining -almost every discovery which has been -pointed out as a <i lang="la">sine quâ non</i> of civilised -life. Every generation is apt to consider -the measure of comfort which it -has reached as indispensable to civilised -life, but very often, in small as well as -great things, what is called civilised to-day -may be called barbarous to-morrow. -Races who abstain from eating the flesh -of animals are apt to look on carnivorous -people as savages; people who -abstain from intoxicating drinks naturally -despise a nation in which drunkenness -is prevalent. What should we say -if we entered a town in which the streets -were neither paved nor lighted, and in -which the windows were without glass; -where we saw no carriages in any of the -thoroughfares, and where, inside the -houses, ladies and gentlemen might be -seen eating without forks and wearing -garments that had never been washed? -And yet even in Paris no street was paved -before 1185. In London Holborn was -first paved in 1417, and Smithfield in -1614, while Berlin was without paved -streets far into the seventeenth century. -No houses had windows of glass before -the twelfth century, and as late as the -fourteenth century anything might be -thrown out of window at Paris, after three -times calling out “<i lang="fr">Gare l'eau!</i>” Shirts -were an invention of the Crusades, and -the fine dresses which ladies and gentlemen -wore during the Middle Ages were -hardly ever washed, but only refreshed -from time to time with precious scents. -In 1550 we are told that there existed in -Paris no more than three carriages—one -belonging to the Queen, the other to -Diane de Poitiers, and the third to René -de Laval. In England coaches (so called -from the Hungarian <i lang="hu">kossi</i>) date from -1580, though whirlicotes go back to the -fourteenth century. So far as we know, -neither Dante nor Beatrice used forks -in eating, and yet we should hardly class -them as savages.</p> - -<p>It is easy to say that all these are -matters of small importance. No doubt -they are, but we often see them treated -as matters of great importance, when we -speak of races with red skins or black -skins. With us civilisation, whether -consisting of these small or great -matters, has often become a burden, a -check rather than a help to the free -development of all that is noble in -human nature; while many conditions -of life which we are inclined to call barbarous -were almost essential for the -growth of the human mind during its -earlier stages. Can we imagine a religion -growing up in modern Paris? -Would a travelling bard, such as Homer, -find an audience in the streets of London? -Would a Socrates be listened to -by the professors of Berlin? A Panini -sitting almost naked under a pippal -tree and composing the rules of his -marvellous grammar of Sanskrit, a -Bâdârâya<i>n</i>a with dishevelled hair, spinning -out of his mind the subtle web of -Vedânta philosophy, would be shunned -as wild creatures by a young English -officer, and yet, on the ladder -that leads to the highest excellence of -intellect, how many steps would the -former stand above the latter! For -carrying out the chief objects of our life -on earth, very little of what is now called -civilisation is really wanted. Many -things are pleasant, without being really -essential to our fulfilling our mission on -earth. For laying the foundations of -society, for settling the broad principles -of law and morality, for discovering the -deep traces of order and unity in nature, -and for becoming conscious of the presence -of the Divine within and without, -a life in the forests, on the mountains, -ay, even in the desert, is far more favorable -than a lodging in Bond Street.</p> - -<p>The latest attempt which has been -made at defining the true character of a -savage restricts the distinctive characteristics -of a savage to three—(1) that he -murders his children, (2) that he kills -and eats his fellow-men, (3) that he disregards -certain laws of nature.</p> - -<p>Now in that sense it seems quite clear -that the first man could not have been a -savage, for if he had murdered his children -we should not be alive; if he had -eaten his fellow-men, supposing there -were any to eat, again we should not be -alive; and if he had disregarded certain -laws of nature, in that case also, probably, -we should not be alive.</p> - -<p>What, then, is to be done? Are we -to say that there never were any -savages, or that it is impossible to distinguish -between a savage and a non-savage? -Certainly not. All we have to -do is to be on our guard against a very -common trick of language, or rather -against a very common mistake of -philosophers, who imagine that the same -name must always mean the same thing. -All the difficulties hitherto detailed -which have prevented anthropologists -from agreeing on any real definition of -savage have arisen from their having -mixed up under the same name at -least two totally different classes of men, -both called savages in ordinary parlance, -but each occupying its own place in the -history of the world. How this should -have happened is difficult to explain, -but I think we can trace the first beginnings -in the works of some of the earlier -anthropologists, who were carried away -by the idea that we can study in the illiterate -races of the present day, such as -we find in Africa, America, and Polynesia, -the true character of the primitive -man, as he emerged new-born from the -bowels of nature. Scientific ethnologists -have long since awaked from this fond -dream, but the primitive savage has remained -as a troublesome legacy in other -quarters. Nothing can be more interesting -than the study of races who -have no literature, but whose former -history may be read in their languages -and their tools, and whose present state -of civilisation or savagery may certainly -be used to throw collateral light on many -phases in the history of more highly -civilised nations. Only let us remember -that these races and their languages are -as old as the most civilised races and -their languages, while their history, if -so we may call it, seldom carries us back -beyond the mere surface of the day. If -we in England are old, the Fuegians are -not a day younger. If the question as -to the age of the European and American -races could be settled by geological -evidence, it would seem as if America is -now able to produce human skulls older -than the Neanderthal skull.<a id="FNanchor_14_14" href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">14</a> No one, -so far as I know, has ever succeeded in -proving that after man had once been -evolved or created, a new evolution or -creation of man took place, attested by -contemporaneous witnesses. The Duke -of Argyll goes so far as to maintain<a id="FNanchor_15_15" href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">15</a> that -those who hold the opinion that different -races of men represent different species, -or a species which spread from more -than one place, stand outside the general -current of scientific thought.</p> - - - -<p>But while scientific anthropologists -have long given up the idea that, if we -want to know the condition of primitive -man, we must study it among the -Fuegians or Eskimos, the subject has -lost none of its charms. It is, no doubt, -a very amusing occupation to run -through the books of modern and -ancient travellers, traders, or missionaries, -to mark with pencil a strange -legend here, and an odd custom there, -to point out a similarity between a -Shâman and an Archbishop, between a -Hottentot and Homer. This kind of -work can be done in the intervals of more -serious studies, and if it is done with -the facile pen of a journalist or the -epigrammatic eloquence of a young -lawyer, nothing can be more delightful. -But it is dangerous work—so dangerous -that the prejudice that has lately -arisen among scientific anthropologists -against Agriology seems justified, at -least to a certain extent. There are -truly scholarlike works on savages. I -say scholarlike intentionally, because -they are based on a scholarlike study of -the languages spoken by the races whose -mental organisation has to be analysed. -The works of Bishops Callaway and -Caldwell, of Brinton and Horatio Hale, -of Gill, Bleek, and Hahn, the more -general compilations of Waitz, Tiele, -Lubbock, Tylor, and Reville, the clever -contributions of A. Lang, John Fiske, -and others, are but the first that occur -to my mind as specimens of really useful -work that may be done in this line. -But the loose and superficial appeals to -savages as the representatives of a brand-new -humanity, fresh from the hands of -the potter, the ignorant attempts at explaining -classical myths from Melanesian -tattle, the wild comparisons of Hebrew -customs with the outrages of modern -cannibals, have at last met with their -well-merited reward, and the very name -of savage is gradually disappearing from -the best works on anthropology and -philosophy.</p> - -<p>And yet there are savages, only we -must distinguish. There are, as I -pointed out long ago, two classes of -savages, to say nothing of minor subdivisions—namely, -<em>progressive</em> and <em>retrogressive</em> -savages. There is a hopeful and -a hopeless barbarism, there is a growing -and a decaying civilisation. We owe a -great deal to the Duke of Argyll, particularly -in his last great work, <cite>The Unity -of Nature</cite>, for having laid so much -stress on the fact that of all works of -nature man is the one most liable to two -kinds of evolution, one ascending and -the other descending. Like the individual, -a whole family, tribe, or race of -men may, within a very short time, rise -to the highest pitch of virtue and culture, -and in the next generation sink to -the lowest level of vice and brutality.</p> - -<p>The first question, therefore, which -we have to ask when we have to speak -of savages, is whether there is any indication -of their having once reached a -higher stage from which they have -descended, or whether they are only -just ascending from that low but healthy -level which must precede every attempt -at what we call civilisation. We may -call both by the same name of savages, -but, if we do so, we must always remember -that, from an historical point of -view, no two stages in civilised life -can be more apart from each other than -that of the retrogressive and that of the -progressive savage.</p> - -<p>But even after we have laid down this -broad line of demarcation, we shall by -no means find it easy to catch either a -progressive or a retrogressive savage <i lang="fr">pur -et simple</i>. If looking out for retrogressive -or decaying savages, most people -would naturally think of Fuegians, -Tasmanians, Hottentots, Ashantis, Veddas, -and Red Indians, and one of the -strongest proofs of their decay would be -derived from the fact that they are dying -out wherever they are brought in contact -with European civilisation. Now -it is true that the Tasmanians have become -extinct, and that several of the Red -Indian tribes, too, have actually been -destroyed by our civilisation. But we -must not generalise too quickly. Some -of these very tribes, the Red Indians,<a id="FNanchor_16_16" href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">16</a> -seem to be recovering, seem to increase -again, and to be able to hold their own -against the baneful influences which -threatened to destroy them. The negroes -also are by no means dwindling -away. On the contrary, they are increasing -both in Africa and in America. -We must therefore be careful before we -deny the recuperative powers even of -retrogressive savages, and we must look -for other evidence beyond mere statistics -in support of their hopeless degeneracy.</p> - -<p>Historical evidence of such gradual -degeneracy is, from the nature of the -case, almost impossible. We must -trust, therefore, to less direct proof. I -believe there is some distinct historical -evidence in the case of the Central and -South American races, that at the time -of the arrival of Columbus and his successors -civilisation had really been -decaying for some time in America.<a id="FNanchor_17_17" href="#Footnote_17_17" class="fnanchor">17</a> -But in nearly all other cases we have to -look out for other proofs in support of -a higher antecedent civilisation possessed -by tribes who, as we know them at -present, have to be classed as savages. -Such proofs, if they exist, must be sought -for in language, religion, customs, tools, -and works of art.</p> - -<p>As I look upon language neither as a -ready-made gift of God nor as a natural -growth of the human mind, but as, in -the true sense of the word, a work of -human art, I must confess that nothing -has surprised me so much as the high -art displayed in the languages of so-called -savages. I do not wish to exaggerate; -and I know quite well that a -great abundance of grammatical forms, -such as we find in these savage dialects, -is by no means a proof of high intellectual -development. But if we consider -how small is the number of words and -ideas in the ordinary vocabulary of an -English peasant,<a id="FNanchor_18_18" href="#Footnote_18_18" class="fnanchor">18</a> and if then we find -that one dialect of the Fuegians, the -Tagan, consists of about 30,000 words,<a id="FNanchor_19_19" href="#Footnote_19_19" class="fnanchor">19</a> -we certainly hesitate before venturing to -classify the possessors of so vast an inherited -wealth as the descendants of -poor savages, more savage than themselves. -Such facts cannot be argued -away. We cannot prevent people from -despising religious concepts different -from their own, or from laughing at -customs which they themselves could -never adopt. But such a treasure of -conceptual thought as is implied in the -possession of a vocabulary of 30,000 entries -cannot be ignored in our estimate -of the antecedents of this Fuegian race. -I select the Fuegians as a crucial test -simply because Darwin<a id="FNanchor_20_20" href="#Footnote_20_20" class="fnanchor">20</a> selected them -as the strongest proof of his own theory, -and placed them almost below the level -reached by the most intelligent animals. -I have always had a true regard for Darwin, -and what I admired in him more than -anything else was his fearlessness, his -simple devotion to truth. I believe that -if he had seen that his own theories were -wrong, he would have been the first to -declare it, whatever his followers might -have said. But in spite of all that, no -man can resist the influence of his own -convictions. When Darwin looked at -the Fuegians, he no doubt saw what he -tells us, but then he saw it with Darwinian -eyes. According to his account, -the party of Fuegians whom he saw resembled -the devils which come on the -stage in such plays as <cite>Der Freischütz</cite>.<a id="FNanchor_21_21" href="#Footnote_21_21" class="fnanchor">21</a> -“Viewing such men, one can hardly -believe,” he says, “that they are fellow-creatures, -and inhabitants of the same -world” (p. 235). “Their language, according -to our notions, scarcely deserves -to be called articulate. Captain Cook -has compared it to a man clearing his -throat, but certainly no European ever -cleared his throat with so many hoarse, -guttural, and clicking sounds.”</p> - -<p>Now, even with regard to their -physical aspect, Darwin must have -either been very unlucky in the Fuegians -whom he met, or he cannot have kept -himself quite free from prejudice. Captain -Parker Snow, in his <cite>Two Years -Cruise of Tierra del Fuego</cite> (London -1857), speaks of them as without the -least exaggeration really beautiful representatives -of the human race. Professor -Virchow, when exhibiting a number of -Fuegians at Berlin, strongly protested -against the supposition of the Fuegians -being by nature an inferior race, so that -they might be considered as a connecting -link between ape and man. But -what shall we say of Darwin's estimate -of the Fuegian language? Here we -can judge for ourselves, and I doubt -whether, so far as this sound is concerned, -anyone would consider Fuegian -as inferior to English. Giacomo Bove, -when speaking of the Tagan dialect, -says, “le parole di quella sono dolci, -piacevoli, piene di vocali.” And though -he admits that some of the other dialects -are harsher, yet that is very far as yet -from the sound of clearing the throat.</p> - -<p>And, even if the sound of their language -was as guttural as some of the -Swiss dialects, how shall we account for -the wealth of their vocabulary? Every -concept embodied in their language is -the result of hard intellectual labor; and -although here again excessive wealth may -be an embarrassment, yet there remains -enough to prove a past that must have -been very different from the present.</p> - -<p>The workman must at least have been -as great as his work; and if the ruins of -Central America tell us of architects -greater than any that country could produce -at present, the magnificent ruins -in the dialects, whether of Fuegians, -Mohawks, or Hottentots, tell us of mental -builders whom no one could match -at present. Even in their religious beliefs -there are here and there rays of -truth which could never have proceeded -from the dark night of their actual -superstitions. The Fuegians, according -to Captain FitzRoy, believe in a just -god and a great spirit moving about in -forests and mountains. They may believe -in a great deal more, but people -who believe in a great spirit in forests -and mountains, and in a just god, are -not on the lowest step of the ladder -leading from earth to heaven.</p> - -<p>The Duke of Argyll, in examining the -principal races that are commonly called -savage, has pointed out that degraded -races generally inhabit the extreme ends -of continents or tracts of country almost -unfit for human habitation, or again -whole islands difficult of access except -under exceptionally favorable conditions. -He naturally concludes that they -did not go there of their own free will, -but that they represent conquered -races, exiles, weaklings, cowards, criminals, -who saved nothing but their life in -their flight before more vigorous conquerors, -or in their exile from countries -that had thrown them off like poison. -Instead of looking on the inhabitants of -Tierra del Fuego as children of the soil, -Autochthones, or the immediate descendants -of the mythical Proanthropoi, -the Duke points out that it is far more -likely they may have come from the north; -that their ancestors may have participated -in the blessings of the soil and climate -of Chili, Peru, Brazil, or Mexico, -possibly in the early civilisation of that -part of the world; and that the wretchedness -of the country into which they -were driven fully accounts for their present -degradation. Take away the wretchedness -of their present home, educate a -baby, as Captain FitzRoy did, under the -beneficent influences of an English sky -and of European civilisation, and in one -generation, as Mr. Darwin tells us, “his -intellect was good, and his disposition -nice.”</p> - -<p>It is quite fair that those who oppose -this theory should call upon the Duke to -establish his view by the evidence of language. -If the Fuegians were the descendants -of the same race which reached a -high pitch of civilisation in Peru, Mexico, -or Central America, their language -ought to show the irrefragable proof of -such descent. If it did, his position -would be impregnable. Unfortunately -the materials now at hand have not yet -been sufficiently examined to enable us -to say either yes or no. Nor must we -forget that language, when it is not fixed -by a popular literature, is liable among -nomadic tribes to unlimited variation. -The number of languages spoken<a id="FNanchor_22_22" href="#Footnote_22_22" class="fnanchor">22</a> -throughout the whole of North and -South America has been estimated to -considerably exceed twelve hundred; -and on the northern continent alone -more than five hundred distinct languages -are said to be spoken, which -admit of classification among seventy-five -ethnical groups, each with essential -linguistic distinctions, pointing to its own -parent stock. Some of these languages -are merely well-marked dialects, with -fully developed vocabularies. Others -have more recently acquired a dialectic -character in the breaking up and scattering -of dismembered tribes, and present a -very limited range of vocabulary, suited -to the intellectual requirements of a -small tribe or band of nomads. The -prevailing condition of life throughout -the whole North American continent -was peculiarly favorable to the multiplication -of such dialects and their growth -into new languages, owing to the constant -breaking up and scattering of -tribes, and the frequent adoption into -their numbers of the refugees from other -fugitive broken tribes, leading to an intermingling -of vocabularies and fresh -modifications of speech. It is to be hoped -that the study of native American languages -may before long receive that -attention which it so fully deserves. It -must be taken up in good earnest, and -with all the accuracy which we are accustomed -to in a comparative study of -Indo-European languages. All ethnological -questions must for the present be -kept in abeyance till the linguistic witness -can be brought into court, and it -would be extraordinary if the laurels -that can here be gained should fail to -stimulate the ambition of some young -scholar in America.</p> - -<p>As to the Fuegians at Cape Horn, so -at the North Pole the Eskimos, however -low their present state of civilisation, -have been looked upon as immigrants -from a centre of civilisation located in a -more temperate zone. The Eskimo -leads the only life that is possible in his -latitudes. Why he should have migrated -there, unless driven by <i lang="fr">force majeure</i>, is -impossible to say. Unless we are willing -to admit a special Eskimo Adam, we -have no choice except to look upon him -either as a withering offshoot of the -American moundbuilders, or as a weak -descendant of Siberian nomads.</p> - -<p>In Africa, the most degraded races, the -Bushmen, are clearly a corruption of the -Hottentots, while it is well known that -some eminent ethnologists look upon the -Hottentots as degraded emigrants from -Egypt. How much higher the civilisation -of Africa stood in former ages, we -know from the monuments of Egypt and -Nubia, from the histories of Phœnicia, -Carthage, and Numidia. If among the -ruins of these ancient centres of civilisation -we now find tribes whom European -travellers would call savage, we see again -that in the evolution of man retrogression -is as important an element as progression.</p> - -<p>Even in Australasia, where we meet -with the most repulsive customs and the -most hopeless barbarism, the Duke of -Argyll shows that, according to the -principles of evolution, the separation -of the islands from the Asiatic continent -would date from a period anterior to the -age of man, and that here too man must -be an immigrant, a degraded offshoot -from that branch of the human race -which in China or India has risen to -some kind of civilised life. For further -details the pages in the last book of the -Duke of Argyll, particularly chapter x., -on the “Degradation of Man,” should -be consulted. It must suffice here to -quote his summing up:—</p> - -<blockquote> - -<p>Instead of assuming these (savage) tribes to -be the nearest living representatives of primeval -man, we should be more safe in assuming them -to represent the widest departure from that -earliest condition of our race which, on the -theory of development, must of necessity have -been associated at first with the most highly -favorable conditions of external nature.</p></blockquote> - -<p>We have thus seen that, wherever we -seem to lay hold of primeval savages who -are supposed to represent to us the unchanged -image of the primeval man, the -evidence of their having been autochthonous -in the places where we now find -them is very weak, the proofs that they -have never changed are altogether wanting; -while geographical, physical, and -linguistic considerations make it probable, -though no more, that they originally -came from more favored countries, -that they were driven in the struggle for -life into inhospitable climates, and that -in accommodating themselves to the -requirements of their new homes they -gradually descended from a higher level -of civilisation, indicated by their language -and religion, to that low level -in which we find them now. Some of -them have sunk so low that, like individual -members of the noblest families in -Europe, they can no longer be reclaimed. -Others, however, though shaken by sudden -contact with the benefits and the -dangers of a higher civilisation, may regain -their former health and vigor, and, -from having been retrogressive savages, -become once more progressive in the -great struggle for existence.</p> - -<p>But if in the cases just mentioned we -feel inclined to recognise the influence of -degradation, and if we class such races -as the Fuegians, the Eskimos, the Bushmen -and Hottentots, the Papuans and -brown Polynesians, as retrogressive -savages, the question arises where we -can hope to find specimens of the progressive -savage, or rather of the natural -man, who might teach us something of -what man may have been before civilisation -completely changed him into an -artificial being, forgetful of the essential -purposes of life, and who feels at home -no longer in fields and forests, on rivers -or mountains, but only in that enchanted -castle of custom and fashion which he -has erected for himself out of the unmeaning -fragments of former ages?</p> - -<p>My answer is that after we have collected -the primitive tools and weapons -which lie buried beneath the abodes of -civilised man, our best chance of learning -some of the secrets of primitive -civilisation is to study the sacred hymns -and the ancient legends of India, the -traditions embodied in the Homeric -poems, and whatever has been preserved -to us of the most ancient literature of -the progressive races of the world, the -Italic, Celtic, Slavonic, and Teutonic -races. This of course applies to the -Aryan race only. The Semitic races are -represented to us in their progress from -a nomadic to a more or less civilised life -in the Old Testament, in the earliest -ballads of the Arabs, and in passages -scattered in the inscriptions of Assyrians, -Babylonians, and Phœnicians. China -too in its ancient literature allows us an -insight into the age of a nascent society, -while Egypt discloses to us the most -ancient of all civilisations, which can -boast of a literature at a time when the -very idea of writing was as yet unknown -to all other nations.</p> - -<p>It is easy to say that all this is modern. -In one sense no doubt it is. The Vedic -literature, the most ancient of the whole -Aryan race, presupposes a succession of -intellectual strata which no chronology -can measure. The language of the -Veda is a work of art which it must have -taken generations to build up. But is it -reasonable to expect anything less -modern in the history of the human -race? And is there not a continuity in -language and thought which allows us to -see even in these literary remains, call -them as modern as you like, something -of the first dawn of human life. French -is a very modern language, but in <i lang="fr">chien</i> -we still hear the Sanskrit <i lang="sa">ṥvan</i>; in <em>journal</em> -we recognise the old Vedic deity -<i lang="sa">Dyaus</i>. In the same way we can go -back from what is common to Sanskrit, -Greek, and Latin, to what was the common -language of the Aryans before they -broke up in different nationalities. In -that common Aryan vocabulary, again, -we can distinguish between what is radical -and primitive and what is formal -and secondary. Thus we may go back -beyond all so-called historical limits to -a stage of primitive thought, represented -by a small number of radical concepts, -and a still smaller number of formal -elements. And is not that enough? Is -it not more historical and more trustworthy, -at all events, than all <i lang="la">à priori</i> -speculations? and have we not at least a -right to demand this from our <i lang="la">à priori</i> -friends, that, in running their tunnel -from the other end, they should take -care that when it emerges into the daylight -of history it should meet the tunnel -which comparative philology, mythology, -and theology have carefully dug out on -the opposite side through the solid rock -of facts? It will never do for <i lang="la">à priori</i> -theories to run counter to <i lang="la">à posteriori</i> -facts. It is a fact, for instance, proved -by historical evidence, that fetichism -represents a secondary stage in the -growth of religion, and that it presupposes -an earlier stage, in which the name -and the concept of something divine, -the predicate of every fetich, was formed. -It would be fatal, therefore, to any system -of <i lang="la">à priori</i> reasoning if it placed -fetichism before that phase in the development -of human thought which is represented -by the first formation of divine -concepts. It would be a real hysteron-proteron.</p> - -<p>Again, it is a fact, proved by historical -evidence, that all the words of the -Aryan languages are derived from definite -roots, expressive of definite concepts. -It would therefore be fatal, -again, to any system of <i lang="la">à priori</i> reasoning -if it attempted to derive words direct -from more or less inarticulate cries -or imitations of cries, and not from that -small number of roots which has been -proved to supply all that is really wanted -in explanation of all the facts of Aryan -speech.</p> - -<p>Again, it is a fact, proved by historical -evidence, that most of the ancient -deities of the Aryan nations have names -expressive of the great powers of nature, -and it would be an insult to all historical -scholarship if our <i lang="la">à priori</i> friends were to -attempt to prove once more that the worship -of Zeus was derived from a general -reverence felt for a gentleman of the -name of Sky, or the belief in Eos from -a sentimental devotion excited by a -young lady of the name of Dawn. I believe -it will be admitted by all honest anthropologists -that the philological identification -of one single word, Dyaus in -the Veda and Zeus in Homer, has done -more for rectifying our ideas of the true -course of ancient Aryan civilisation than -all the myths and customs of savages put -together.</p> - -<p>There was a time when the students -of Oriental literature were inclined to -claim an extravagant antiquity for the -books which they had rescued from -oblivion. But that tendency has now -been changed into the very opposite. -There may be traces of it among Chinese, -sometimes among Egyptian and Accadian -scholars, but wherever we have -to deal with a real literature, whether -in India, Persia, or Palestine, scholars -are far more anxious to point out what -is modern than what is ancient, whether -in the Veda the Avesta, or the Old -Testament. I certainly do not feel -guilty of ever having claimed an excessive -antiquity for the Rig-Veda. From -the very first, though I placed the whole -of Vedic literature before Buddhism, -say the sixth century <span class="smcap">B.C.</span> and though, -owing to the changes in language, style, -and thought which are clearly perceptible -in different parts of Vedic literature, -owing also to certain astronomical -dates, I ventured to place it between -1000 and 1500 <span class="smcap">B.C.</span>, yet I have never concealed -my impression that some portions -of the Veda may turn out to be of far -more recent origin.<a id="FNanchor_23_23" href="#Footnote_23_23" class="fnanchor">23</a></p> - -<p>But is not that sufficient? Is it not -perfectly marvellous that so much that is -really old, so much that carries us back -more than 3,000 years, should have been -preserved to us at all? Why will people -ask for what is impossible? Savages -they say, do not read and write, and yet -they want to have trustworthy information -from literary documents composed -by those very savages who cannot read -and write. Among the Aryan nations, -I do not believe in any written books -before the sixth century <span class="smcap">B.C.</span> In China, -books may have been older, papyri are -older in Egypt, and clay tablets in Babylon. -But even when literature began, -the very last that ancient people do is to -write about themselves, about their manners -and customs. What we know of -the manners and customs of ancient -people, when they were still passing -through that phase which we call progressive -savagery, comes to us from -strangers only. As modern travellers -give us full accounts of the life of -savages who cannot speak and write for -themselves, our only chance of learning -something about our own ancestors, before -they began to write, would be from -ancient travellers who were interested in -these promising savages. Now it is a -piece of excessive good luck that, with -regard to one of the Aryan races, with -regard to our own Teutonic ancestors, -we possess such a book, written by a -stranger who felt deeply interested in -German savages, and who has told us -what they were, before they could write -and tell us themselves what they were. -If we want to study the progressive savage, -not as he ought to have been, according -to <i lang="la">à priori</i> philosophy, nor as -he might have been, according to what -we see among Fuegians of the present -day, but as he really was according to -the best information that could be collected -by the best of historians, we must, -read and read again the <cite>Germania</cite> of -Tacitus.</p> - -<p>If history means the evidence of contemporary -eye-witnesses, I doubt whether -history will ever enable us to see -further into the natural transition of -barbarism into civilisation than in the -<cite>Germania</cite> of Tacitus. To divide civilisation -from barbarism by a sharp line is -of course impossible. There are remnants -of barbarism in the most advanced -state of civilisation, and there -are sparks of civilisation in the most -distant ages of barbarism—at least of -that healthy barbarism which is represented -to us in the <cite>Germania</cite>, and of -which we find but scanty fragments in -the ancient literature of the civilising -nations of the world.</p> - -<p>Here we may see ourselves as we -were not quite two thousand years ago. -Here we may see from how small beginnings -the highest civilisation may be -reached. Here we may study the -natural man as he really was, in some -respects certainly a savage, but a progressive -savage, as we know from his -later history, and certainly without one -sign of that corruption and decay which -is so plainly visible in Hottentots and -Papuans.</p> - -<p>This book, the account of the site, -the manners, and the inhabitants of -Germany, by Tacitus, has had various -fates. To every German, to every member -of the Teutonic race, it has always -been a kind of national charter, a -picture of a golden age, adorned with -all that is considered most perfect, pure, -and noble in human nature; whereas -French <em>savants</em> have often either ridiculed -the work of Tacitus as a mere -romance, or so interpreted his words as -to turn the ancient Germans into real -Hottentots.</p> - -<p>This controversy has been carried on -during several centuries. M. Guizot, -for instance, in his <cite>History of Civilisation</cite> -completely ignoring the distinction -between retrogressive and progressive -savages, tried to show that there was -little to choose between the Germans of -Tacitus and the Red Indians of the -present day.</p> - -<p>This controversy became embittered -by a curious circumstance. Whereas -Tacitus and other Roman writers spoke -in glowing terms of the Teutonic races, -their remarks on the Gauls, the ancient -inhabitants of France, were not only far -from complimentary, but happened to -touch on points on which Frenchmen -are particularly sensitive. Tertullian, -who was a great admirer of the Jews, -was very wroth with Tacitus because he -used very anti-Semitic language. He -actually calls Tacitus a “brawler, and -the greatest teller of lies,”<a id="FNanchor_24_24" href="#Footnote_24_24" class="fnanchor">24</a> The -French do not differ much from that -opinion, not so much because Tacitus -spoke ill of the Jews, and likewise of -the Celts of Gaul, as because he spoke -so well of the <i lang="fr">paysans du Danube</i>. The -ancient classical writers dwell rather -strongly on the unfavorable side of the -Celtic character. It is well known how -low an opinion Aristotle formed of -Celtic morality. Strabo says that the -Celts are simple, but proud and sensitive, -fond of dress and ornaments. It -is even hinted that they dyed their hair, -and allowed their mustache to grow, so -that it interfered with the comfort of -eating and drinking.<a id="FNanchor_25_25" href="#Footnote_25_25" class="fnanchor">25</a> Strabo goes on -to say that they are not malicious, but -reckless, changeable, fond of innovation, -and never to be depended on. They -are quick in their resolutions, but often -inconsiderate, fond of war, brave, but -intolerably conceited if victorious, and -quite demoralised if defeated. Polybius -confirms that their first onslaught is -terrible, but both Cæsar and Livy agree -as to their want of steadiness and perseverance. -Other Latin authors add that -they are unmanageable and inclined to -revolutions, and that, owing to continual -factions, many are obliged to leave -the country, and to try their fortunes -as adventurers elsewhere. Still darker -colors were added by others to this picture -of national depravity. The state of -morality in Gaul was such that it was -considered infamous for a father to be -seen in company with his son before the -latter had come of age. At the death -of a nobleman his widow was, as a -matter of course, subjected to a trial as -to whether she had been the cause of her -husband's death. Strabo affirms that it -was their custom to cut off the heads of -their enemies after a battle, and to hang -them on the heads of their horses, or -nail them over their doors. While German -scholars composed this mosaic out -of all the stones that classical writers -had ever thrown at the inhabitants of -Gaul, French writers retaliated by either -throwing discredit on Tacitus, the supposed -encomiast of the Germans, or by -showing that the account which Tacitus -gives of the ancestors of the Teutonic -race proves better than anything else -that, at his time, the Germans had not -yet emerged from a state of the grossest -barbarism, and were incapable, therefore, -as yet of vices of which they maintain -are the outcome of a more advanced -state of civilisation.</p> - -<p>To my mind, apart from any national -idiosyncrasies, the description which -Tacitus gives us of the Germans, as he -had seen them, is perfectly unique and -invaluable as a picture of what I should -willingly call the life of progressive savages. -What should we give if, besides -the hymns of the Rig-Veda, we had the -accounts of travellers who had actually -seen the ancient Rishis of India with -their flocks and families, their priests -and sacrifices, their kings and battles? -What should we give if, besides the -Homeric poems, we had the work of an -eyewitness who could describe to us the -real Troy, and the real fight between -Greece and Asia Minor? This is what -Tacitus has done for Germany, and at a -time when the ancient religion was still -living, when the simple laws of a primitive -society were still observed, and -when the epic poems of a later time were -still being sung as ballads at the feasts -of half-naked warriors! In Tacitus, -therefore, and not in the missionary -accounts of Melanesian savages, should -we study the truly primitive man, primitive -in the only sense in which we shall -ever know of primitive man, and primitive -certainly in a far truer sense than -Papuans or Fuegians are likely to be in -the nineteenth century. I cannot understand -how an historian like Guizot -could have allowed himself to be so -much misguided by national prejudice -as to speak of Tacitus as a kind of -Montaigne or Rousseau, who, in a fit of -disgust with his own country, drew a -picture of Germany as a mere satire on -Roman manners, or to call the <cite>Germania</cite> -“the eloquent sulking of a -patriotic philosopher who wishes to see -virtue where he does not find the disgraceful -effeminacy and the elegant -depravity of an old society.” Surely -the work of Tacitus cannot have been -very fresh in the memory of the great -French historian when he delivered this -judgment. If Tacitus, like Rousseau or -Voltaire, had intended to draw the -picture of an ideal barbarism, would he -have mentioned the many vices of the -German Utopia, the indolence of the -Germans, their drunkenness, their -cruelty to slaves, their passion for gambling, -and their riotous revels? Besides, -three-fourths of his book treat of subjects -which have no bearing whatever on -Roman society, nay, which are of so -little interest to the general reader that -I doubt whether many Romans would -have taken the trouble to read them. -The facts which came to the knowledge -of Tacitus are so loosely strung together -that his book looks more like a collection -of memoranda than the compact and -pointed pamphlet of a political satirist. -We need only read the letters of Voltaire -on England, or Montalembert's pamphlet, -<cite>De l'Angleterre</cite>, in order to perceive -the difference between a political -satire and an historical memoir. No -doubt a man of the temper of Tacitus -would naturally dwell with satisfaction -on the bright side of the German character, -and, while holding before the eyes of -his own nation the picture of a brave and -simple, religious and independent race, -might naturally think of what Rome once -had been, and was no longer. But there -is no more sarcasm or satire in his work -than is inseparable from a straightforward -statement of facts when addressed -to ears no longer accustomed to the -sound of unvarnished truth.</p> - -<p>So little did M. Guizot perceive the -unique character of the <cite>Germania</cite> of -Tacitus as an historical document of the -earliest stage of society, that he amused -himself with collecting from various -books of travel a number of facts observed -among the very lowest races in -America and Africa, which, as he thinks, -form an exact parallel to the statements -of Tacitus with regard to the good and -bad qualities of the Germans. His -parallel columns, which occupy nearly -ten pages, are certainly amusing, but -they prove nothing, least of all that there -was no difference between the healthy -sons of Germany and the tattooed cannibals -of New Zealand. If they prove -anything, it is that there is one kind of -barbarism through which every nation -has to pass, the childhood and wild -youth of a race, to be followed by the -mature vigor of a nation's manhood, and -that there is another kind of barbarism -which leads to nothing, but ends in mere -brutality, shrinking from contact with -higher civilisation and succumbing when -it attempts to imitate with monkeyish -delight the virtues and vices of a more -advanced society. Why is it that the -fresh breezes of European civilisation -proved fatal to the consumptive barbarism -of the wretched inhabitants of -Australia, while the strong constitution -of the Germans of Tacitus resisted -even the poisonous vapors of Roman -life? When the results are so different, -surely there must be a difference in the -antecedents, and though M. Guizot is -successful in showing that in some respects -the ancient Germans did the same -things and said the same things as Ojibways -and Papuans, he forgets in drawing -his conclusion the old proverb, <i lang="la">Si duo -dicunt idem, non est idem</i>.</p> - -<p>After these remarks it will perhaps -seem less surprising that students of -antiquity should decline to answer the -point-blank question whether man began -his life on earth as a savage. Every -definition that has been attempted of -a savage in general, has broken down as -soon as it was confronted with facts. -The only characteristic of the savage -which remained, and was strong enough -to withstand the sharpest cross-examination, -was cannibalism. But I am not -aware that even the most extreme believers -in the primitive savage would insist -on his having been necessarily a cannibal, -a kind of human Kronos, swallowing -his own kith and kin.</p> - -<p>Every attempt to place the savage who -can <em>no longer</em> be called civilised in the -place of the savage who can <em>not yet</em> be -so-called, could only end, as it has, in -utter confusion of thought.</p> - -<p>Something, however, will be gained, -or at all events some kind of mutual -understanding will become possible, if -in future discussions on the character of -primitive man a careful distinction is -made between the two kinds of savages, -the progressive and the retrogressive. -When that distinction has once been -grasped, the question whether man began -as a savage has no longer anything -perplexing about it. Man certainly began -as a savage, but as a progressive -savage. He certainly did not begin with -an innate knowledge of reading, writing -and arithmetic; but, on the other -hand, there is nothing to lead us to suppose -that he was a being altogether foul -and filthy, that when he grew up he invariably -ill-treated his wife or wives, and -that still later in life he passed his time -in eating his children.</p> - -<p>If we must need form theories or -reason by analogy on the primitive state -of man, let us go to the nearest <i lang="fr">ci-près</i>, -such as the Vedic Hindus, or the Germans -as described by Cæsar and -Tacitus, but not to Fuegians, who in -time and probably in space also are the -most widely removed from the primitive -inhabitants of our globe. If we knew -nothing of the manners and customs of -the Saxons, when they first settled in -these isles, should we imagine that they -must have resembled the most depraved -classes of modern English society? Let -us but once see clearly that the Fuegian, -whether as described by Darwin or by -Parker Snow, is the most modern of -human beings, and we shall pause before -we see in him the image of the first -ancestor of the human race. Wherever -we look we can see the rise and fall of -the human race. We can see it with -our own eyes, if we look at the living -representatives of some of our oldest and -noblest families; we can read it in history -if we compare ancient India with -modern India, ancient Greece with modern -Greece. The idea that the Fuegian -was salted and preserved for us during -many thousands of years, so that we -might study in him the original type of -man, is nothing but a poetical sentiment -unsupported alike by fact, analogy, and -reason.</p> - -<p>I know full well that when I speak of -the Germans of Tacitus or of the Aryans -of the Veda as the <i lang="fr">ci-près</i> of primitive -man, all the indications of modern, or -at all events of secondary and tertiary -thought which I have pointed out myself -in the hymns of the Rig-Veda, and which -might easily be collected from the book -of Tacitus, will be mustered against me. -Must I quote the old saying again: <i lang="la">Est -quoddam prodire tenus si non datur ultra</i>? -All I maintain is that these historical -documents bring us as near to the primitive -man as historical documents can -bring us; but that the nearest point -within our reach is still very far from the -cradle of the human race, no one has -pointed out more often than myself.</p> - -<p>There is, however, plenty of work -still to be done in slowly following up -the course of human progress and tracing -it back to its earliest stages, as far -as literary, monumental, and traditional -documents will allow us to do so. -There are many intricate windings of -that historical river to be explored, -many riddles to be solved, many lessons -to be learnt. One thing only is quite -certain—namely, that the private diary -of the first man will never be discovered, -least of all at Cape Horn.</p> - -<p>I have thus tried to show how untenable -is the theory which would boldly -identify the modern savage with primitive -man, and how cautious we ought to -be whenever we take even a few hints -here and there from degraded tribes of -the present day in order to fill out our -imaginary picture of the earliest civilisation -of our race. Some lessons, and -even important lessons, may be learnt -from savages, if only they are studied in -a truly scholarlike spirit, as they have -been, for instance, by Callaway and -Codrington, by Waitz and Tylor. But -if the interpretation of an Homeric custom -or myth requires care, that of African -or Polynesian customs or myths -requires ten times greater care, and -if a man shrinks from writing on the -Veda because he does not know Sanskrit, -he should tremble whenever he writes -the names of Zulus, unless he has some -idea of what Bântu grammar means.</p> - -<p>In arguing so far, I have carefully -kept to the historical point of view, -though I am well aware that the principal -traits in the imaginary picture of -primitive man are generally taken from -a very different source. We are so made -that for everything that comes before us -we have to postulate a cause and a beginning. -We therefore postulate a -cause and a beginning for man. The -ethnologist is not concerned with the -first cause of man, but he cannot resist -the craving of his mind to know at least -the beginning of man.</p> - -<p>Most ethnologists used to hold that, -as each individual begins as a child, -mankind also began as a child; and they -imagined that a careful observation of -the modern child would give them some -idea of the character of the primeval -child. Much ingenuity has been spent -on this subject since the days of Voltaire, -and many amusing books have -been the result, till it was seen at last that -the modern baby and the primeval baby -have nothing in common but the name, -not even a mother or a nurse.</p> - -<p>It is chiefly due to Darwin and to the -new impulse which he gave to the theory -of evolution that this line of argument -was abandoned as hopeless. Darwin -boldly asked the question whose child the -primeval human baby could have been, -and he answered it by representing the -human baby as the child of non-human -parents. Admitting even the possibility -of this <i lang="la">transitio in aliud genus</i>, which the -most honest of Darwin's followers -strenuously deny, what should we gain -by this for our purpose—namely, for -knowing the primitive state of man, the -earliest glimmerings of the human intellect? -Our difficulties would remain exactly -the same, only pushed back a little -further.</p> - -<p>Disappointing as it may sound, the -fact must be faced, nevertheless, that -our reasoning faculties, wonderful as -they are, break down completely before -all problems concerning the origin of -things. We may imagine, we may believe, -anything we like about the first -man; we can know absolutely nothing. -If we trace him back to a primeval cell, -the primeval cell that could become a -man is more mysterious by far than the -man that was evolved from a cell. If -we trace him back to a primeval pro-anthropos, -the pro-anthropos is more unintelligible -to us than even the protanthropos -would be. If we trace back the -whole solar system to a rotating nebula, -that wonderful nebula which by evolution -and revolution could become an inhabitable -universe is, again, far more -mysterious than the universe itself.</p> - -<p>The lesson that there are limits to our -knowledge is an old lesson, but it has to -be taught again and again. It was -taught by Buddha, it was taught by -Socrates, and it was taught for the last -time in the most powerful manner by -Kant. Philosophy has been called the -knowledge of our knowledge; it might -be called more truly the knowledge of -our ignorance, or, to adopt the more -moderate language of Kant, the knowledge -of the limits of our knowledge.—<cite>Nineteenth -Century.</cite></p> - - - - - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="LE_BONHOMME_CORNEILLE">LE BONHOMME CORNEILLE.</h2> - -<p class="aut">BY HENRY M. TROLLOPE.</p> - - -<p>The Marquis de Dangeau wrote, in -his journal for the 1st of October, 1684: -“Aujourd'hui est mort le bonhomme -Corneille.” The illustrious dramatist -was an old man, for he had been born -in 1606. He was a good old fellow in -his way, being always an honest and upright -man, though the appellation “le -bonhomme” was less frequently given to -him than to La Fontaine.</p> - -<p>Had it been as much the fashion fifty -years ago as now to honor great men by -anniversaries, in the year 1836 a more -gracious homage might have been paid -to the author of <cite>Le Cid</cite>. At Christmastime -in that year this play burst upon -Paris. As a bombshell carries with it -destruction, the <i>Cid</i> gave sudden and -unexpected delight to all who saw it. -It is the first of French tragedies that -has left a mark; no earlier tragedy is -now generally remembered. Corneille -woke up to find himself famous. It appears -that, though he was by no means -a novice, he was as much astonished as -anyone at the great success of his play. -The Court liked it, and the town liked -it. It was at once translated into many -languages. In France people learnt -passages of it by heart, and for a while -there was a popular saying, “Cela est -beau comme le <i>Cid</i>.” If the good folk -in Paris had only bethought themselves -in 1836 of celebrating the bi-centenary -of the appearance of the <i>Cid</i> the event -would have sounded happier than of -now celebrating the author's death. -But fashion rules much in this world. -It has not yet become fashionable to -recollect the date of a great man's great -work—fifty years ago it had not become -fashionable to have centenaries at all; -so that now, all other excuses failing, -we must seize upon the bi-centenary of -Corneille's death as a date upon which -to honor him. Let us hope that on the -6th of June, 1906, the ter-centenary of -his birth, a more joyful note may be -sung.</p> - -<p>We have said that Pierre Corneille -was a good old fellow in his way, but it -was his misfortune that his way was not -more like that of other men. He was -very poor during the last ten or twelve -years of his life. He walked out one -day with a friend, and went into a shop -to have his shoe mended. During the -operation he sat down upon a plank, his -friend sitting beside him. After the -cobbler had finished his job Corneille -took from his purse three bits of money -to pay for his shoe, and when the two -gentlemen got home Corneille's friend -offered him his purse, but he declined -all assistance. Corneille was of a proud -and independent nature. He is reported -to have said of himself, “Je suis -saoûl de gloire, mais affamé d'argent.” -He has been accused of avarice—unjustly, -we think—because he tried to get as -much money as he could for his plays. -If a man wants money he will try to obtain -that which he thinks should belong -to him. And if he wants it badly, his -high notions of dignity—if it be only -mock dignity—will go to the wall. No -fine gentleman nowadays would think it -beneath him to take £100 from a publisher -or from a theatrical manager after -it had been fairly earned. Some ask for -their £100 before it has been earned. -Two hundred years ago a poet was supposed -to be paid with honor and glory, -but, unfortunately for himself, Corneille -wanted more solid acknowledgment. -And two hundred years ago the rights -of authorship were not so well understood -as now. In France, as in England, -very few men could have lived by -their pen alone. It is true that the dramatists -were among the most fortunate, -but many years had elapsed since Corneille's -plays had been popular at the -theatre. In 1670 Molière, as theatrical -manager, had given him 2,000 francs for -a piece. This was considered a large -sum, and it may be doubted if Molière's -company ever got back their money. -The play was <cite>Tite et Bérénice</cite>, and it -was played alternately with <cite>Le Bourgeois -Gentilhomme</cite>. We may judge which of -the two plays we should like to see best. -Corneille had to make the most of his -2,000 francs, for his pension, supposed -to be paid to him every year from the -Civil List, was always delayed. The -year was made to have fifteen months! -Sometimes the pension was not paid at -all. So that poor Corneille was hard -pressed for money in the latter years of -his life, from 1672 to 1684, while his -years of greatest triumph had been from -1636 to 1642. And he had small resources -except what had come to him -from writing. His two sons went into -the army, and he had to provide for -them at a time when his payments from -the theatre were diminishing. There is -no evidence which should make us think -he was avaricious or greedy for money.</p> - -<p>In his manner Corneille was apt to be -awkward and ungainly. A contemporary -says that when he first saw him he -took him for a tradesman at Rouen. -Rouen was his birthplace, and there he -lived until his avocations compelled -him, against his will, to live in Paris. -Like La Fontaine, he made a poor figure -in society. He did not talk well. He -was not good company, and his friends -were bound to confess that he was rather -a bore. Those who knew him well -enough would hint to him his defects, -at which he would smile, and say, “I -am none the less Pierre Corneille.” -But his physiognomy, when observed, -was far from commonplace. His nephew, -Fontenelle, says of him: “His face was -pleasant enough; a large nose, a good -mouth, his expression lively, and his -features strongly marked and fit to be -transmitted to posterity in a medal or in -a bust.” Corneille begins a letter to -Pellisson with the following verses, describing -himself:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">En matière d'amour je suis fort inégal,</div> - <div class="verse">Je l'écris assez bien, je le fais assez mal;</div> - <div class="verse">J'ai la plume féconde et la bouche stérile,</div> - <div class="verse">Bon galant au théâtre et fort mauvais en ville;</div> - <div class="verse">Et l'on peut rarement m'écouter sans ennui</div> - <div class="verse">Que quand je me produis par la bouche d'autrui.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>This is a charming little bit of autobiography. -And in the same letter, after -the verses, the old poet says, “My poetry -left me at the same time as my teeth.”</p> - -<p>All this he writes, laughing in his -sleeve. But often enough he was melancholy -and depressed. Again we quote -from Fontenelle: “Corneille was of a -melancholy temperament. He required -stronger emotions to make him hopeful -and happy than to make him mournful -or despondent. His manner was -brusque, and sometimes rude in appearance, -but at bottom he was very easy to -live with, and he was affectionate and -full of friendliness.” When he heard -of large sums of money being given to -other men for their plays, for pieces that -the world liked perhaps better than his -own, he got unhappy, for he felt that -his glory was departing from him. Need -we go back two hundred years to find -instances of men who have become unhappy -from similar causes? There are -many such in London and in Paris at -this moment. Early in his career, before -the days of the <i>Cid</i>, he was proud -of his calling. He gloried in being one -of the dramatic authors of his time. -He says:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Le théâtre est un fief dont les rentes sont bonnes.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>And also:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Mon travail sans appui monte sur le théâtre,</div> - <div class="verse">Chacun en liberté l'y blâme ou l'idolâtre.</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Then he had the ball at his feet, and all -the world was before him. He had just -made his name, and was honored by -Richelieu—being appointed one of his -five paid authors. But minister and -poet did not like each other. The autocrat -was in something of the same position -towards his inferior as is the big boy -towards the little boy who gets above -him at school. The big boy wanted to -thrash the little boy, and the little boy -wouldn't have it; but at last he had to -suffer for his precociousness. The big -boy summoned other little boys to his -assistance, and made them administer -chastisement to the offender. This was -the examination of the <i>Cid</i> by the Academy.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">“En vain, contre le <i>Cid</i> un ministre se ligue,</div> - <div class="verse">Tout Paris pour Chimène a les yeux de Rodrigue;</div> - <div class="verse">L'Académie en corps a beau le censurer,</div> - <div class="verse">Le public révolté s'obstine à l'admirer.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Corneille was a voluminous writer. -He wrote nearly as many plays as Shakespeare, -but his later ones are not equal -to those of his best days. And he wrote -a translation in verse of the <cite>Imitatione -Christi</cite>. This was a pecuniary success. -The book was bought and eagerly read, -though now it is rarely taken down from -the shelf. But his prose, unlike Racine's, -which charms by its grace, is insignificant. -And, unlike Racine, his -speech when he was received into the -French Academy was dull, and disappointed -everybody. An Academical reception -is one of the occasions in which -Frenchmen have always expected that -the recipient of honor should distinguish -himself. But it was not in Corneille's -power to please his audience by -making a speech. We need not be too -heavy upon him because his glory was -not universal. As he said of himself, -he was none the less Pierre Corneille. -Readers have generally extolled Corneille -too highly, or have not given him his -due praise. This is partly from the fact -that after his great success he wrote -much that was unworthy of his former -self; and partly, we believe at least, -that even in his best plays he is too -spasmodic. His fine lines come out too -much by starts, amidst much that is -uninteresting. The famous “Qu'il -mourût” (<cite>Horace</cite>, Act III., sc. 6) is -very grand, and the next line, though -not English in sentiment, is fine. But -the four succeeding lines are washy, and -take away from the dignity of what has -just gone before. Instinctively Corneille -was a dramatist, and had it not -been for the laws of the unities which -bound him down to conventional and -unwise rules, he would in all probability -have risen higher in the world's esteem. -He was also a poet, having the gift of -poetical expression more at his command -than the larger measure of composition -in prose. His lines are often -sweet and very stirring, for he was -moved towards his subject with a true -feeling of poetic chivalry. None of his -lines is more quoted than one in which -he proudly spoke of himself:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">Je ne dois qu'à moi seul toute ma renommée.</div> -</div></div></div> -<p class="right">—<cite>Gentleman's Magazine.</cite></p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2><a name="CHARLES_DICKENS_AT_HOME" id="CHARLES_DICKENS_AT_HOME">CHARLES DICKENS AT HOME.</a><br /> - -<span class="smcap"><small>With Especial Reference to His Relations with Children</small>.</span></h2> - -<p class="aut">BY HIS ELDEST DAUGHTER.</p> - - - -<p>Charles Dickens was a very little -and very sickly boy, but he had always -the belief that this circumstance had -brought to him the inestimable advantage -of having greatly inclined him to -reading.</p> - -<p>When money troubles came upon his -parents, the poor little fellow was taken -away from school and kept for some -time at an occupation most distasteful to -him, with every surrounding that could -jar on sensitive and refined feelings. -But the great hardship, and the one -which he felt most acutely, was the want -of the companionship of boys of his own -age. A few years later on we read in -“Mr. Forster's Life” a schoolfellow's -description of Charles Dickens: “A -healthy-looking boy, small, but well-built, -with a more than usual flow of -spirits, inclining to harmless fun, -seldom, if never, I think, to mischief. -He usually held his head more erect -than lads ordinarily do, and there was a -general smartness about him.” This is -also a very good personal description of -the man.</p> - -<p>I have never heard him refer in any -way to his own childish days, excepting -in one instance, when he would tell the -story of how, when he lived at Chatham -he and his father often passed Gad's -Hill in their walks, and what an admiration -he had for the red-brick house with -its beautiful old cedar trees, and how it -seemed to him to be larger and finer -than any other house; and how his -father would tell him that if he were to -be very persevering and were to work -hard he might perhaps some day come -to live in it. I have heard him tell this -story over and over again, when he had -become the possessor of the very place -which had taken such a hold upon his -childish affections. Beyond this, I cannot -recall a single instance of any allusion -being made by him to his own early childhood.</p> - -<p>He believed the power of observation -in very young children to be close and -accurate, and he thought that the recollection -of most of us could go further -back than we supposed. I do not know -how far my own memory may carry me -back, but I have no remembrance of my -childhood which is not immediately associated -with him.</p> - -<p>He had a wonderful attraction for children -and a quick perception of their -character and disposition; a most winning -and easy way with them, full of -fun, but also of a graver sympathy with -their many small troubles and perplexities, -which made them recognise a friend -in him at once.</p> - -<p>I have often seen mere babies, who -would look at no other stranger present, -put out their tiny arms to him with unbounded -confidence, or place a small -hand in his and trot away with him, -quite proud and contented at having -found such a companion; and although -with his own children he had sometimes -a sterner manner than he had with -others, there was not one of them who -feared to go to him for help and -advice, knowing well that there was no -trouble too trivial to claim his attention, -and that in him they would always find -unvarying justice and love. When any -treat had to be asked for, the second -little daughter, always a pet of her -father's, was pushed into his study by -the other children, and always returned -triumphant. He wrote special prayers -for us as soon as we could speak, interested -himself in our lessons, would -give prizes for industry, for punctuality, -for neat and unblotted copy-books. A -word of commendation from him was -indeed most highly cherished, and would -set our hearts glowing with pride and -pleasure.</p> - -<p>His study, to us children, was rather a -mysterious and awe-inspiring chamber, -and while he was at work no one was -allowed to enter it. We little ones had -to pass the door as quietly as possible, -and our little tongues left off chattering. -But at no time through his busy life was -he too busy to think of us, to amuse us, -or to interest himself in all that concerned -us. Ever since I can remember -anything I remember him as the -good genius of the house, and as its -happy, bright, and funny genius. He -had a peculiar tone of voice and way -of speaking for each of his children, who -could tell, without being called by name -which was the one addressed. He had -funny songs which he used to sing to -them before they went to bed. One in -particular, about an old man who caught -cold and rheumatism while sitting in an -omnibus, was a great favorite, and as it -was accompanied by sneezes, coughs, -and gesticulations, it had to be sung -over and over again before the small -audience was satisfied.</p> - -<p>I can see him now, through the mist -of years, with a child nearly always on -his knee at this time of the evening, his -bright and beautiful eyes full of life and -fun. I can hear his clear sweet voice -as he sang to those children as if he had -no other occupation in the world but to -amuse them; and when they grew older, -and were able to act little plays, it was -their father himself, who was teacher, -manager, and prompter to the infant -amateurs. These theatricals were undertaken -as earnestly and seriously as -were those of the grown up people. He -would teach the children their parts -separately; what to do and how to do it, -acting himself for their edification. At -one moment he would be the dragon in -“Fortunio,” at the next one of the -seven servants, then a jockey—played -by the youngest child, whose little legs -had much difficulty to get into the tiny -top-boots—until he had taken every part -in the play.</p> - -<p>As with his grown-up company of -actors, so with his juvenile company, -did his own earnestness and activity -work upon them and affect each personally. -The shyest and most awkward -child would come out quite brilliantly -under his patient and always encouraging -training.</p> - -<p>At the juvenile parties he was always -the ruling spirit. He had acquired by -degrees an excellent collection of conjuring -tricks, and on Twelfth Night—his -eldest son's birthday—he would very -often, dressed as a magician, give a conjuring -entertainment, when a little figure -which appeared from a wonderful and -mysterious bag, and which was supposed -to be a personal friend of the conjuror, -would greatly delight the audience by -his funny stories, his eccentric voice and -way of speaking, and by his miraculous -appearances and disappearances. Of -course a plum pudding was made in a hat, -and was always one of the great successes -of the evening. I have seen many -such puddings, but no other conjurer has -been able to put into a pudding all the -love, sympathy, fun, and thorough enjoyment -which seemed to come from the -hands of this great magician. Then, -when supper time came, he would be -everywhere at once, serving, cutting up -the great twelfth cake, dispensing the -bonbons, proposing toasts, and calling -upon first one child and then another for -a song or recitation. How eager the -little faces looked for each turn to come -round, and how they would blush and -brighten up when the magician's eyes -looked their way!</p> - -<p>One year, before a Twelfth Night -dance, when his two daughters were -quite tiny girls, he took it into his head -that they must teach him and his friend -John Leech the polka. The lessons -were begun as soon as thought of, and -continued for some time. It must have -been rather a funny sight to see the two -small children teaching those two men—Mr. -Leech was over six feet—to -dance, all four as solemn and staid as -possible.</p> - -<p>As in everything he undertook, so in -this instance, did Charles Dickens throw -his whole heart into the dance. No one -could have taken more pains than he -did, or have been more eager and -anxious, or more conscientious about -steps and time than he was. And often, -after the lesson was over, he would jump -up and have a practice by himself. -When the night of the party came both -the small dancing mistresses felt anxious -and nervous. I know that the heart of -one beat very fast when the moment for -starting off arrived. But both pupils -acquitted themselves perfectly, and were -the admiration of all beholders.</p> - -<p>Sir Roger de Coverley was always -the finale to those dances, and was a -special favorite of Charles Dickens, who -kept it up as long as possible, and was -as unflagging in his dancing enthusiasm -as was his own “Fizziwig” in his.</p> - -<p>There can be but little doubt that the -children who came to those parties, and -who have lived to grow up to be men -and women, remember them as something -bright and sunny in their young -lives, and must always retain a loving -feeling for their kind and genial host.</p> - -<p>In those early days when he was living -in Devonshire Terrace, his children -were quite babies. And when he paid -his first visit to America—accompanied -by Mrs. Dickens—they were left under -the care of some relations and friends. -Anyone reading “The Letters of -Charles Dickens” must be touched by -his frequent allusions to these children, -and by the love and tenderness expressed -in his longings to see them -again.</p> - -<p>I can recall but very little of those -days. I can remember our being -obliged to spend much of the time at the -house of a dear and good friend, but -where the children of the house were -very severely and sternly brought up. -And I can remember how my little sister -used to cry whenever she had to go -there. I have also a vague remembrance -of the return of the travellers, -and of being lifted up to a gate and kissing -my father through the bars. I do -not know how the gate came to be shut, -but imagine that he, in his impatience -and eagerness to see us again, must have -jumped out of the carriage before there -was time for the gate to be opened.</p> - -<p>I cannot at all recall his appearance at -this time, but know from old portraits -that his face was beautiful. I think he -was fond of dress, and must have been -rather a dandy in his way. Carrying my -memory further on, I <em>can</em> remember him -as very handsome. He had a most -beautiful mouth, sensitive, strong, and -full of character. This was, unfortunately, -hidden when he took to wearing—some -years afterwards—a beard and -mustache. But this is the only alteration -I can remember in him, as to me -his face never seemed to change at all. -He had always an active, young, and -boyish-looking figure, and a way of holding -his head a little thrown back, which -was very characteristic. This carriage -of the head, and his manner altogether, -are exactly inherited by one of his sons.</p> - -<p>Charles Dickens was always a great -walker, but in these days he rode and -drove more than he did in later years. -He was fond of the game of battledore -and shuttlecock, and used constantly to -play with friends on summer evenings. -There is a little drawing by the late -Daniel Maclise, where a shuttlecock is to -be seen in the air. This is suggestive of -many and many a pleasant evening in -the garden, which was shut in all round -by a high wall, and where, in summer -time, a tent was always put up, and -where, after dinner the family would adjourn -for “dessert,” This was always -considered by us a special treat.</p> - -<p>As the children grew older, there -were evenings when they would be -allowed to drive out into the country, -and then get out of the carriage and -walk with “Papa.” It seems now as if -the wild flowers which used to be gathered -on those evenings in the country -lanes were sweeter and more beautiful -than any which grow nowadays! The -very lanes have all disappeared and -grown into houses. But the memory of -the one who originated those treats, and -who was the good spirit of the time, can -<em>never</em> be blotted out.</p> - -<p>Charles Dickens brought a little white -Havannah spaniel with him from America, -and from that time there were always -various pets about the house. In -particular there was an eagle and a -raven. The eagle had a sort of grotto -made for him in the garden, to which he -was chained, and being chained he was -not quite such an object of terror to the -children as the raven was. This raven, -with its mischievous nature, delighted in -frightening them. One of the little daughters -had very chubby, rosy legs, and the -raven used to run after and peck at -them, until poor “Tatie's leds” became -a constant subject for commiseration. -Yet the raven was a great source of -amusement to the family, and there were -countless funny stories about him. He -was especially wicked to the eagle; as -soon as his food was brought to him, the -raven would swoop down upon it, take -it just beyond the eagle's reach, mount -guard over it, dancing round it, and -chuckling. When he considered he had -tantalised the poor bird enough, he would -eat the food as deliberately and slowly -as possible, and then hop away perfectly -contented with himself. He was not -the celebrated Grip of “Barnaby -Rudge,” but was given after the death -of that bird.</p> - -<p>In bringing up his children, Charles -Dickens was always most anxious to impress -upon them that as long as they -were honest and truthful, so would they -always be sure of having justice done to -them. To show how strongly he felt -about this, and what a horror he had of -their being frightened, or in any way -unnecessarily intimidated, his own words -shall be quoted:—</p> - -<p>“In the little world in which children -have their existence, whosoever brings -them up, there is nothing so finely perceived -and so finely felt as injustice. -It may only be small injustice that the -child can be exposed to; but the child -is small, and its rocking-horse stands as -many hands high, according to scale, -as a big-boned Irish hunter.” And -again:—“It would be difficult to overstate -the intensity and accuracy of an -intelligent child's observation. At that -impressible time of life, it must sometimes -produce a fixed impression. If -the fixed impression be of an object -terrible to the child, it will be (for want -of reasoning upon) inseparable from -great fear. Force the child at such a -time, be Spartan with it, send it into the -dark against its will, and you had better -murder it.”</p> - -<p>He was always tender with us, as I -have said, in our small troubles and -trials. When the time came for the -eldest son to be sent to a boarding-school, -there was great grief in the -nursery at Devonshire Terrace, and he -came unexpectedly upon one of his -daughters who was putting away some -school-books, and crying bitterly at the -time. To him the separation could not -have seemed such a terrible one, as the -boy was certainly to come home once a -month, if not once a week. But he -soothed the weeping child, and reasoned -with her, using much the same arguments -as he did years afterwards, when -the well-beloved Plorn went to Australia—namely, -that these partings were -“Hard, hard things, but must be -borne,” until at last the sobs ceased, -and the poor aching little heart had -found consolation in his loving sympathy.</p> - -<p>There are so many people, good, kind, -and affectionate, but who can <em>not</em> remember -that they once were children -themselves, and looked out upon the -world with a child's eyes <em>only</em>!</p> - -<p>A third daughter was born in Devonshire -Terrace, but only lived to be nine -months old. Her death was very sudden, -and happened while Charles -Dickens was presiding at a public dinner. -He had been playing with the -baby before starting for the dinner, and -the little thing was then as well and as -bright as possible.</p> - -<p>An evening or two after her death, -some beautiful flowers were sent and -were brought into the study, and the -father was about to take them upstairs -and place them on the little dead baby, -when he suddenly gave away completely. -It is always very terrible to see -a man weep; but to see your own father -weep, and to see this for the first time -as a child, fills you with a curious awe.</p> - -<p>When the grave where the little Dora -was buried was opened, a few years ago, -and the tiny coffin was seen lying at the -bottom of it, the remembrance of that -evening in the study at Devonshire Terrace -was fresh in the minds of some of -those who were standing at the grave.</p> - -<p>It was always a great honor and -delight to any of the children to have -any special present from “Papa,” and -on the occasion of a daughter's birthday -a watch had been promised, and the day -was eagerly looked forward to by the -whole of the family. When the morning -arrived, Charles Dickens was not well, -and was unable to get up to breakfast, -but the little girl was sent for, and went -up to his bedside in a state of trembling -and anxious expectation. He put his -arms round her and kissed her, wishing -her “Many happy returns of the day,” -and took a case from under his pillow -and opened it. But when she saw first -a gold watch, and then when he turned -it and showed an enamelled back, with -her initials also in enamel, it was many -seconds before the joyful Oh! could be -gasped out; but when it <em>did</em> come, and -she met her father's eyes, I don't think -they were freer from a certain sort of -moisture than were those of the happy -and delighted child.</p> - -<p>When the move was made from -Devonshire Terrace to Tavistock House—a -far larger and handsomer house than -the old home—Charles Dickens promised -his daughters a better bedroom than they -ever had before, and told them that he -should choose “the brightest of papers” -for it, but that they were not to see -“the gorgeous apartment” until it was -ready for their use. But when the time -came for the move, and the two girls -were shown their room, it surpassed -even their expectations. They found it -full of love and thoughtful care, and as -pretty and as fresh as their hearts could -desire, and with not a single thing in it -which had not been expressly chosen for -them, or planned by their father. The -wall-paper was covered with wild-flowers, -the two little iron bedsteads were -hung with a flowery chintz. There were -two toilet-tables, two writing-tables, two -easy chairs, etc., etc., all so pretty and -elegant, and this in the days when bedrooms -were not, as a rule, so luxurious -as they are now.</p> - -<p>Notwithstanding his constant and -arduous work, he was never too busy to -be unmindful of the comfort and welfare -of those about him, and there was -not a corner in any of his homes, from -kitchen to garret, which was not constantly -inspected by him, and which did -not boast of some of his neat and orderly -contrivances. We used to laugh -at him sometimes and say we believed -that he was personally acquainted with -every nail in the house.</p> - -<p>It was in this home, some few years -later, that the first grown-up theatricals -were given. And these theatricals were -very remarkable, in that nearly every -part was filled by some celebrated man -in either literature or art.</p> - -<p>Besides being a really great actor, -Charles Dickens as a manager was quite -incomparable. His “company” was as -well trained as any first-class professional -company, and although always -kind and pleasant, he was feared and -looked up to by every member of his -company. The rehearsals meant business -and hard work, and sometimes -even tears to a few, when all did not go -quite satisfactorily. Each one knew -that there could be no trifling, no playing -at work. As in the children's performances -so in these later ones did he -know every part, and enter heart and -soul into each character. If any new -idea came into his head, he would at -once propound it to the actor or actress, -who, looking upon that earnest face and -active figure, would do his or her very -best to gain a managerial smile of approval.</p> - -<p>He had a temporary theatre built out -into the garden, and the scenes were -painted by some of the greatest scene-painters -of the day. A drop-scene, -representing Eddystone lighthouse, by -the late Clarkson Stanfield, R.A., was -afterwards framed and covered with -glass, and hung in the entrance hall of -Gad's Hill.</p> - -<p>In the play called “The Lighthouse,” -written by Mr. Wilkie Collins, the great -effect at the end of an act was to come -from a storm, and the rehearsing of this -storm was a very serious matter indeed. -There was a long wooden box with peas -in it, to be moved slowly up and down -to represent rain—a wheel to be turned -for wind—a piece of oilcloth to be -dashed upon oilcloth and slowly dragged -away, for the waves coming up and -then receding, carrying the pebbles -along with them—a heavy weight rolled -about upon the floor above the stage, -for thunder, etc., etc.</p> - -<p>At the time of the storm the manager's -part kept him on the stage, but during -rehearsal he somehow or other managed -to be in the hall where the storm was -worked, as well as on the stage, for he -sometimes appeared with the rain, sometimes -with the wind, sometimes with the -thunder, until he had seen each separate -part made perfect. This storm was -pronounced by the audience a most -wonderful success. I know there was -such a noise “behind the scenes” that -we could not hear ourselves speak, and -it was most amusing to watch all the -actors in their sailor dresses and their -various “make-ups,” gravely and solemnly -pounding away at these raw materials.</p> - -<p>Then the suppers after these evenings -were so delightful! Many and many of -the company, besides the dear manager, -have passed away, but many still remain -to remember them.</p> - -<p>Until he came into possession of -Gad's Hill, Charles Dickens was in the -habit of removing his whole household -to some seaside place every summer. -For many years Broadstairs was the favorite -spot, and for some seasons he -rented a house there, called Fort House. -It stood on a hill surrounded by a nice -garden, a little out of the town, and -close to the cliff, and was a home of -which he was very fond. Since those -days the name of it has been changed to -Bleak House. During these seaside -visits he would take long walks, in all -weathers—and always accompanied by -one faithful friend and companion—and -would get as brown and as weather-beaten -as any of the sailors about, of -whom he was the special favorite. I -think he had some of the sailor element -in himself. One always hears of sailors -being so neat, handy, and tidy, and he -possessed all these qualities to a wonderful -extent. When a sea captain retires, -his garden is always the trimmest about, -the gates are painted a bright green, -and of course he puts up a flag-staff. -The garden at Gad's Hill was the trimmest -and the neatest, green paint was on -every place where it could possibly be -put, and the flag staff had an endless -supply of flags.</p> - - - -<p>There was one year spent in Italy, -when the children were still very young, -and another year in Switzerland, at -Lausanne; but after Broadstairs, Boulogne -became the favorite watering-place. -It was here, in a charming villa, -quite out of the town, that he and his -youngest son, “The Plorn,” would wander -about the garden together admiring -the flowers, the little fellow being taught -to show his admiration by holding up -his tiny arms. It was a pretty sight to -watch them down the long avenue, the -baby looking so sweet in its white frock -and blue ribbons, either carried in his -father's arms, or toddling by his side -with his little hand in his, and a most -perfect understanding between them! -There were always anecdotes to be told -of the Plorn after these walks, when his -father invariably wound up with the assertion -that he was “a noble boy.” -Being the youngest of the family, he was -made a great pet of, especially by his -father, and was kept longer at home -than any of his brothers had been.</p> - -<p>Charles Dickens writes to his sister-in-law -in the year 1856:—“Kiss the -Plorn for me, and expound to him that -I am always looking forward to meeting -him again, among the birds and flowers -in the garden on the side of the hill at -Boulogne.” And when he had to part -with this son in 1868, he says in a letter -to a friend, “Poor Plorn is gone to -Australia. It was a hard parting at the -last. He seemed to me to become once -more my youngest and favorite little -child as the day drew near, and I did -not think I could have been so shaken.” -The housekeeper at his office, who saw -him after he had taken leave of the boy, -told “how she had never seen the master -so upset, and that when she asked -him how Mr. Edward went off he burst -into tears, and couldn't answer her a -word.”</p> - -<p>During the years spent at Tavistock -House one of his daughters was, for a -time, a great invalid, and after a worse -attack of illness than usual her father -suggested that she should be carried as -far as the study, and lie on the sofa -there, while he was at work. This was -of course considered an immense privilege, -and even if she had not felt as -weak and ill as she did, she would have -been bound to remain as still and quiet -as possible. For some time there was -no sound to be heard in the room but -the rapid working of the pen, when suddenly -he jumped up, went to the looking-glass, -rushed back to his writing-table -and jotted down a few words; -back to the glass again, this time talking -to his own reflection, or rather to the -simulated expression he saw there, and -was trying to catch before drawing it in -words, then back again to his writing. -After a little he got up again, and stood -with his back to the glass, talking softly -and rapidly for a long time, then <em>looking</em> -at his daughter, but certainly never <em>seeing</em> -her, then once more back to his table, -and to steady writing until luncheon -time. It was a curious experience, and -a wonderful thing to see him throwing -himself so entirely <em>out</em> of himself -and <em>into</em> the character he was writing -about. His daughter has very seldom -mentioned this incident, feeling as if it -would be almost a breach of confidence -to do so. But in these reminiscences of -her father, she considers it only right -that this experience should be mentioned, -showing as it does his characteristic -earnestness and method of work.</p> - -<p>Often, after a hard morning's writing, -when he has been alone with his family, -and no visitors in the house, he has -come in to luncheon and gone through -the meal without uttering a word, and -then has gone back again to the work in -which he was so completely absorbed. -Then again, there have been times when -his nerves have been strung up to such -a pitch that any sudden noise, such as -the dropping of a spoon, or the clatter -of a plate, seemed to cause him real -agony. He never could bear the least -noise when he was writing, and waged a -fierce war against all organ-grinders, -bands, etc.</p> - -<p>In 1856 the purchase of Gad's Hill -was made. Charles Dickens had never -been inside the house until it was his -own. For once we may hope and believe -that a childish dream was realised, -for certainly some of the happiest years -of his home-life were spent in the house -he had so coveted and admired when he -was quite a small boy. “It has never -been to me like any other house,” were -his own words.</p> - -<p>For the first three years, Gad's Hill -was only used by him as a summer residence, -but after the sale of Tavistock -House, in 1860, it became his home; -and from this time, until the year of his -death, his great delight was to make -“the little freehold” as comfortable, -complete, and pretty as possible. Every -year he had some “bright idea,” or -some contemplated “wonderful improvement” -to propound to us. And it -became quite a joke between him and -his youngest daughter—who was constantly -at Gad's Hill—as to what the -next improvement was to be. These -additions and alterations gave him endless -amusement and delight, and he -would watch the growing of each one -with the utmost eagerness and impatience. -The most important <em>out</em>-door -“improvement” he made, was a tunnel -to connect the garden with the shrubbery, -which lay on the opposite side of -the high road, and could only be approached -by leaving the garden, crossing -the road, and unlocking a gate. -The work of excavation began, of course -from each side, and on the day when it -was supposed that the picks would meet -and the light appear, Charles Dickens -was so excited that he had to “knock -off work,” and stood for hours waiting -for this consummation, and when at last -it did come to pass, the workmen were -all “treated,” and there was a general -jubilee. This “improvement” was a -great success, for the shrubbery was a -nice addition to the garden, and moreover -in it, facing the road, grew two -very large and beautiful cedar-trees. -Some little time after Monsieur Fechter -sent his friend a two-roomed châlet, -which was placed in the shrubbery. -The upper room was prettily furnished, -and fitted all round with looking-glasses -to reflect the view, and was used by -Charles Dickens as a study throughout -the summer. He had a passion for -light, bright colors, and looking-glass. -When he built a new drawing-room he -had two mirrors sunk into the wall opposite -each other, which, being so -placed, gave the effect of an endless -corridor. I do not remember how -many rooms could thus be counted, but -he would often call some of us, and ask -if we could make out another room, as -<em>he</em> certainly could.</p> - -<p>For one “improvement” he had looking-glass -put into each panel of the dining-room -door, and showing it to his -youngest daughter said, with great pride, -“Now, what do you say to <em>this</em>, Katie?” -She laughed and said, “Well, really, -papa, I think when you're an angel your -wings will be made of looking-glass, and -your crown of scarlet geraniums!”</p> - -<p>He loved all flowers, but especially -bright flowers, and scarlet geraniums -were his favorite of all. There were -two large beds of these on the front -lawn, and when they were fully out, -making one scarlet mass, there was -blaze enough to satisfy even <em>him</em>. Even -in dress he was fond of a great deal of -color, and the dress of a friend who -came to his daughter's wedding quite -delighted him because it was trimmed -with a profusion of cherry-colored ribbon. -He used constantly to speak about -it afterwards in terms of the highest admiration.</p> - -<p>The large dogs at Gad's Hill were -quite a feature of the place, and were -also rather a subject of dread to outsiders. -But this was desirable, as the -house really required protection, standing -as it did on the high road, which was -frequented by tramps of a wild and low -order, who, in the hopping season, were -sometimes even dangerous; and the -dogs, though as gentle as possible to -their own people, knew that they were -the guardians of the place, and were -terribly fierce to all intruders. Linda—a -St. Bernard, and a beautiful specimen -of that breed—had been as a puppy living -in the garden at Tavistock House -before she was taken to Gad's Hill. -She and Turk, a mastiff, were constant -companions in all their master's walks. -When he was away from home, and the -ladies of the family were out alone with -the dogs, Turk would at once feel the -responsibility of his position, and guard -them with unusual devotion, giving up -all play in an instant when he happened -to see any suspicious-looking figure approaching; -and he never made a mistake -in discovering the tramp. He would -then keep on the outside of the road, -close to his mistresses, with an ominous -turning up of the lip, and with anything -but the usually mild expression in his -beautiful large brown eyes, and he -would give many a look back before he -thought it safe to be off again on his -own account. Of all the large dogs— -and there were many at different times—these -two were the best loved by their -dear master.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bouncer, a little white Pomeranian -with black eyes and nose, the very -sweetest and most bewitching of her sex, -was a present to the eldest daughter, and -was brought by her, a puppy of only six -weeks old, to Tavistock House. “The -boys,” knowing that the little dog was -to arrive, were ready to receive their sister -at the door, and escorted her, in a -tremendous state of excitement, up to -the study. But when the little creature -was put down on the floor to be exhibited -to Charles Dickens, and showed her -pretty figure and little bushy tail curling -tightly over her back, they could keep -quiet no longer, but fairly screamed and -danced with delight. From that moment -he took to the little dog and made -a pet of her, and it was he who gave her -the name of Mrs. Bouncer. He delighted -to see her out with the large dogs, -because she looked “so preposterously -small” by the side of them. He had a -peculiar voice and way of speaking for -her, which she knew perfectly well and -would respond to at once, running to -him from any part of the house or garden -directly she heard the call. To be -stroked with a foot had great fascinations -for Mrs. Bouncer, and my father -would often and often take off his boot -of an evening and sit stroking the little -creature while he read or smoked for an -hour together. And although there -were times, I fear, when her sharp bark -must have irritated him, there never was -an angry word for Bouncer.</p> - -<p>Then there was Dick, the eldest -daughter's canary, another important -member of the household, who came -out of his cage every morning at breakfast -time and hopped about the table, -pecking away at anything he had a fancy -for, and perching upon the heads or -shoulders of those present. Occasionally -he would have naughty fits, when -he would actually dare to peck his master's -cheek. He took strong likes and -dislikes, loving some people and really -hating others. But a word from his -mistress called him to order at once, and -he would come to her when so called -from any part of the room. After she -had been away from home she always -on her return went to the room where -Dick lived and put her head just inside -the door. At the very sight of her the -bird would fly to the corner of his cage -and sing as if his little throat would -burst. Charles Dickens constantly followed -his daughter and peeped into the -room behind her, just to see Dick's rapturous -reception of his mistress. When -this pet bird died he had him buried in -the garden, and a rose-tree planted over -his grave, and wrote his epitaph:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse"><i>This is the grave of</i></div> - <div class="verse"><i>DICK,</i></div> - <div class="verse"><i>The best of birds.</i></div>. - <div class="verse"><i>Born at Broadstairs, Midsr. 1851.</i></div> - <div class="verse"><i>Died at Gad's Hill Place, 14th Oct., 1866.</i></div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>While Dick lived cats were of course -tabooed, and were never allowed about -the house; but after his death a white -kitten called Williamina was given to -one of the family, and she and her numerous -offspring had a happy home at -Gad's Hill.</p> - -<p>This cat ingratiated herself into favor -with every one in the house, but she was -particularly devoted to the master. -Once, after a family of kittens had been -born, she had a fancy that they should -live in the study. So she brought them -up, one by one, from the kitchen floor, -where a comfortable bed had been provided -for them, and deposited them in a -corner of the study. They were taken -down stairs by order of the master, who -said he really could <em>not</em> allow the kittens -to be in his room. Williamina tried -again, but again with the same result. -But when the third time she carried a -kitten up the stairs into the hall, and -from there to the study window, jumping -in with it in her mouth, and laying -it at her master's feet, until the whole -family were at last before him, and she -herself sat down beside them and gave -him an imploring look, he could resist -no longer, and Williamina carried the -day. As the kittens grew up they became -very rampagious, and swarmed up the -curtains and played on the writing-table, -and scampered among the book-shelves, -and made such a noise as was never -heard in the study before. But the same -spirit which influenced the whole house -must have been brought to bear upon -those noisy little creatures to keep them -still and quiet when necessary, for they -were never complained of, and they were -never turned out of the study until the -time came for giving them away and -finding good homes for them. One kitten -was kept, and, being a very exceptional -cat, deserves to be specially mentioned. -Being deaf, he had no name -given him, but was called by the servants -“the master's cat,” in consequence -of his devotion to him. He was -always with his master, and used to -follow him about the garden and sit with -him while he was writing. One evening -they were left together, the ladies of the -house having gone to a ball in the neighborhood. -Charles Dickens was reading -at a small table on which a lighted candle -was placed, when suddenly the candle -went out. He was much interested -in his book, relighted the candle, gave a -pat to the cat, who he noticed was looking -up at him with a most pathetic expression, -and went on with his reading. -A few minutes afterwards, the light getting -dim, he looked up and was in time -to see Puss deliberately put out the -candle with his paw, and then gaze again -appealingly at his master. This second -appeal was understood, and had the desired -effect. The book was shut, and -Puss was made a fuss with and amused -till bed-time. His master was full of -this anecdote when we all met in the -morning.</p> - -<p>During the summer months there was -a constant succession of visitors at -Gad's Hill, with picnics, long drives, -and much happy holiday-making. At -these picnics there was a frequent request -to this lover of light and color of -“<em>Please</em> let us have the luncheon in the -shade at any rate.” He came to his -daughter one day and said he had “a -capital idea” about picnic luncheons. -He wished each person to have his or -her own ration neatly done up in one -parcel, to consist of a mutton pie, a -hard-boiled egg, a roll, a piece of butter, -and a packet of salt. Of course this -idea was faithfully carried out, but was -not always the rule, as when the choice -of food was put to the vote, it was -found that many people cared neither -for mutton-pie nor hard-boiled egg. -But “the capital idea” of separate rations -was always followed as closely as -possible.</p> - -<p>Charles Dickens was a most delightful -and genial host, had the power of putting -the shyest people at ease with him -at once, and had a charm in his manner -peculiarly his own and quite indescribable. -The charm was always there -whether he was grave or gay, whether in -his very funniest or in his most serious -and earnest mood.</p> - -<p>He was a strict master in the way of -insisting upon everything being done -perfectly and exactly as he desired, but, -on the other hand, was most kind, just, -and considerate.</p> - -<p>His punctuality was a remarkable -characteristic, and visitors used to wonder -how it was that everything was done -to the very minute, “almost by clockwork,” -as some of them would remark.</p> - -<p>It is a common saying now in the -family of some dear friends, where punctuality -is not <em>quite</em> so well observed, -“What would Mr. Dickens have said to -this?” or, “Ah! my dear child, I wish -you could have been at Gad's Hill to -learn what punctuality means!”</p> - -<p>Charles Dickens was very fond of -music, and not only of classical music. -He loved national airs, old tunes, songs, -and ballads, and was easily moved by -anything pathetic in a song or tune, and -was never tired of hearing his special -favorites sung or played. He used to -like to have music of an evening, and -duets used to be played for hours together, -while he would read or walk up -and down the room. A member of his -family was singing a ballad one evening -while he was apparently deep in his -book, when he suddenly got up, saying, -“You don't make enough of that word,” -and he sat down by the piano, showed -her the way in which he wished it to be -emphasized, and did not leave the instrument -until it had been sung to his -satisfaction. Whenever this song was -sung, which it often was, as it became a -favorite with him, he would always listen -for that word, with his head a little on -one side, as much as to say, “I wonder -if she will remember.”</p> - -<p>There was a large meadow at the back -of the garden in which, during the summer-time, -many cricket matches were -held. Although never playing himself, -he delighted in the game, and would sit -in his tent, keeping score for one side, -the whole day long. He never took to -croquet; but had lawn-tennis been -played in the Gad's Hill days, he would -certainly have enjoyed it. He liked -American bowls, at which he used constantly -to play with his male guests. -For one of his “improvements” he had -turned a waste piece of land into a croquet-ground -and bowling-green.</p> - -<p>In the meadow he used to practice -many of his “readings;” and any stranger -passing down the lane and seeing -him gesticulating and hearing him talking, -laughing, and sometimes it may be -weeping, must surely have thought him -out of his mind! The getting up of -these “readings” gave him an immense -amount of labor and fatigue, and the -sorrowful parts tried him greatly. For -instance, in the reading of “Little Dombey,” -it was hard work for him so to -steel his heart as to be able to read the -death without breaking down or displaying -too much emotion. He often told -how much he suffered over this story, -and how it would have been impossible -for him to have gone through with it had -he not kept constantly before his eyes -the picture of his own Plorn alive and -strong and well.</p> - -<p>His great neatness and tidiness have -already been alluded to, as also his wonderful -sense of order. The first thing -he did every morning, before going to -work, was to make a complete circuit of -the garden, and then to go over the -whole house, to see that everything was -in its place. And this was also the first -thing he did upon his return home, after -long absence. A more thoroughly orderly -nature never existed. And it must -have been through this gift of order that -he was enabled to make time—notwithstanding -any amount of work—to give -to the minutest household details. Before -a dinner-party the <i>menu</i> was always -submitted to him for approval, and he -always made a neat little plan of the table, -with the names of the guests marked -in their respective places, and a list of -“who was to take in who” to dinner, -and had constantly some “bright idea” -or other as to the arrangement of the -table or the rooms.</p> - -<p>Among his many attributes, that of a -doctor must not be forgotten. He was -invaluable in a sick room, or in any sudden -emergency; always quiet, always -cheerful, always useful and skilful, always -doing the right thing, so that his -very presence seemed to bring comfort -and help. From his children's earliest -days his visits, during any time of sickness, -were eagerly longed for and believed -in, as doing more good than those -even of the doctor himself. He had a -curiously magnetic and sympathetic -hand, and his touch was wonderfully -soothing and quieting. As a mesmerist -he possessed great power, which he used, -most successfully, in many cases of great -pain and distress. He had a strong -aversion to saying good-bye, and would -do anything he possibly could to avoid -going through the ordeal. This feeling -must have been natural to him, for as -early as the “Old Curiosity Shop” he -writes: “Why is it we can better bear to -part in spirit than in body, and while we -have the fortitude to bid farewell have -not the nerve to say it? On the eve of -long voyages, or an absence of many -years, friends who are tenderly attached -will separate with the usual look, the -usual pressure of the hand, planning one -final interview for the morrow, while -each well knows that it is but a feint to -save the pain of uttering that one word, -and that the meeting will never be! -Should possibilities be worse to bear -than certainties?” So all who love -him, and who know the painful dislike -<em>he</em> had to that word, are thankful that -he was spared the agony of that last, -long Farewell.</p> - -<p>Almost the pleasantest times at Gad's -Hill were the winter gatherings for -Christmas and the New Year, when the -house was more than full, and the bachelors -of the party had to be “put up” -in the village. At these times Charles -Dickens was at his gayest and brightest, -and the days passed cheerily and merrily -away. He was great at games, and -many of the evenings were spent in playing -at Yes and No, Proverbs, Russian -Scandal, Crambo, Dumb Crambo—in -this he was most exquisitely funny—and -a game of Memory, which he particularly -liked.</p> - -<p>The New Year was always welcomed -with all honors. Just before twelve -o'clock everybody would assemble in the -hall, and he would open the door and -stand in the entrance, watch in hand—how -many of his friends must remember -him thus, and think lovingly of the picture!—as -he waited, with a half-smile on -his attentive face, for the bells to chime -out the New Year. Then his voice -would break the silence with, “A Happy -New Year to us all.” For many minutes -there would be much embracing, -hand-shaking, and good-wishing; and -the servants would all come up and get -a hearty shake of the hand from the beloved -“master.” Then hot spiced -wine would be distributed, and good-health -drunk all round. Sometimes -there would be a country dance, in -which the host delighted, and in which -he insisted upon every one joining, and -he never allowed the dancing—and real -dancing it was too—to flag for an instant, -but kept it up until even <em>he</em> was -tired and out of breath, and had at last -to clap his hands, and bring it to an -end. His thorough enjoyment was most -charming to witness, and seemed to infect -every one present.</p> - -<p>One New Year's Day at breakfast, he -proposed that we should act some charades, -in dumb show, that evening. -This proposal being met with enthusiasm, -the idea was put into train at -once. The different parts were assigned, -dresses were discussed, “properties” -were collected, and rehearsing went on -the whole day long. As the home visitors -were all to take part in the charades, -invitations had to be sent to the more -intimate neighbors to make an audience, -an impromptu supper had to be arranged -for, and the day was one of continual -bustle and excitement, and the rehearsals -were the greatest fun imaginable. A -dear old friend volunteered to undertake -the music, and he played delightfully all -through the acting. These charades -made one of the pleasantest and most -successful of New Year's evenings spent -at Gad's Hill.</p> - -<p>But there were not only grown-up -guests invited to the pretty cheerful -home. In a letter to a friend Charles -Dickens writes: “Another generation -begins to peep above the table. I once -used to think what a horrible thing it -was to be a grandfather. Finding that -the calamity falls upon me without my -perceiving any other change in myself, I -bear it like a man.” But as he so disliked -the name of grandfather as applied -to himself, those grandchildren were -taught by him to call him “Venerables.” -And to this day some of them -still speak of him by this self-invented -name.</p> - - - -<p>Now there is another and younger -family who never knew “Venerables,” -but have been all taught to know his -likeness, and taught to know his books -by the pictures in them, as soon as -they can be taught anything, and whose -baby hands lay bright flowers upon the -stone in Westminster Abbey, every June -9 and every Christmas Eve. For in remembrance -of his love for all that is gay -in color, none but the brightest flowers, -and also some of the gorgeous American -leaves, sent by a friend for the purpose, -are laid upon the grave, making that -one spot in the midst of the vast and -solemn building bright and beautiful.</p> - -<p>In a letter to Plorn before his departure -for Australia, Charles Dickens -writes: “I hope you will always be -able to say in after life, that you had a -kind father.” And to this hope, each -one of his children can answer with a -loving, grateful heart, that so it was.—<cite>Cornhill -Magazine.</cite></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="THE_SUMMER_PALACE_PEKING">THE SUMMER PALACE, PEKING.</h2> - -<p class="aut">BY C. F. GORDON CUMMING.</p> - - -<p>I think the only enjoyable time of -the day, during the burning summer in -dusty, dirty, dilapidated Peking, is the -very early morning, before the sun rises -high, and while the air still feels fresh, -and one can enjoy sitting in the cool -courts which take the place of gardens, -and listen to the quaint music of the -pigeons as they fly overhead. This is -no dove-like cooing, but a low melodious -whistle like the sighing of an Eolian -harp or the murmur of telegraph wires -thrilled by the night wind. It is produced -by the action of cylindrical pipes -like two finger-ends, side by side, about -an inch and a half in length. These are -made of very light wood and filled with -whistles. Some are globular in form -and are constructed from a tiny gourd. -These little musical boxes are attached -to the tail feathers of the pigeon in such -a manner that as he flies the air shall -blow through the whistle, producing the -most plaintive tones, especially as there -are often many pigeons flying at once—some -near, some distant, some just overhead, -some high in the heavens; so the -combined effect is really melodious. I -believe the Pekingese are the only people -who thus provide themselves with a -dove orchestra, though the use of pigeons -as message-bearers is common to -all parts of the Empire.</p> - -<p>There is one form of insect life here -which is a terrible nuisance—namely, -the sand-flies, which swarm in multitudes. -They are too cruel, every one is -bitten, and the irritation is so excessive -that few people have sufficient determination -to resist scratching. So of course -there is a most unbecoming prevalence -of red spots, suggestive of a murrain of -measles!</p> - -<p>I have been told that I am singularly -unfortunate in the season of my visit, -and that if only I had come in September -I should have found life most enjoyable -(I recollect some of the residents at -Aden likewise assuring me that they -really learnt to think their blazing rock -quite pleasant!) I suppose that I am -spoilt by memories of green Pacific isles -and sweet sea breezes, so I can only -compassionate people who, till two -months ago, were ice-bound—shut off -from the world by a frozen river—and -now are boiled and stifled!</p> - -<p>Such of them, however, as can get -away from their work in the city have -the delightful resource of going to the -hills, and establishing themselves as -lodgers at one of the many almost forsaken -temples, where a few poor priests -are very glad to supplement their small -revenues by a sure income of barbaric -coin. The Pekingese themselves are in -the habit of thus making summer trips -to the hills—so many of the temples -have furnished rooms to let—with a -view to encouraging the combination of -well-paid temple service with this pleasant -change of air.</p> - -<p>I am told that many of these temples -are charmingly situated, and have beautifully -laid-out grounds. A group called -“The Eight Great Temples” is described -as especially attractive. They -are dotted on terraces along the face of -the western mountains, about twelve -miles from the city, and among their attractions -are cool pools in shady grottoes -all overgrown with trailing vines -and bright blossoms; stone fountains, -where numberless gold-fish swim in crystalline -water, which falls from the mouth -of a great marble dragon; curious inscriptions -in Thibetan and Chinese characters, -deeply engraven on the rocks -and colored red; fine groups of Scotch -firs, and old walnut-trees; and in -springtime I am told that our dear familiar -lilac blossoms in perfection. Then -there are all manner of quaintly ornamental -pagodas and temples, great and -small, with innumerable images and -pictures, and silken hangings, and all -the paraphernalia so attractive to the -artistic eye.</p> - -<p>Among the points of chief interest in -the immediate neighborhood of Peking, -the Summer Palace of course holds a -foremost place, and there I found my -way yesterday by paying the penalty of -eight hours of anguish in a hateful -springless cart, which is the cab of Peking, -and the only mode of locomotion -for such as are not the happy possessors -of horses.</p> - -<p>The manifold interests of the day, -however, far more than compensated for -the drawbacks of even dust and bumping, -which is saying a great deal. A -member of one of the Legations had -kindly undertaken to show me the various -points of interest to the north-west -of the city, and we agreed to try and -escape some heat by starting at 3.30 -<span class="smcap">A.M.</span>, at which hour I was accordingly -ready, waiting in the courtyard to open -the gate. It was a most lovely morning, -the clear moonlight mingling with the -dawn, and the air fresh and pleasant. I -had full leisure to enjoy it, for the -carter, who had promised to be at the -Japanese Legation by three, was wrapped -in slumber. So my companion had to -begin his day's work by a two miles' -walk to fetch me. Luckily, my carter -had been more faithful, so we started in -very fair time; indeed, I profited by -the delay, for as we passed through the -great northern gate, there on the dusty -plain—just outside the walls—we came -in for a grand review of the Eight Banners, -by Prince Poah of the Iron Crown. -Such a pretty, animated scene, with all -these Tartar regiments galloping about, -and their gay standards flashing through -the smoke of artillery and the dust-clouds, -which seem to blend the vast -plain with the blue distant hills and the -great gray walls and huge three-storied -keep which forms the gateway.</p> - -<p>The latter is that Anting Gate of -which we heard so much at the time -when it was given up to the British army -after the sacking of the Summer Palace; -not, however, till their big guns were -planted on the raised terraces within the -sacred park of the Temple of Earth, all -ready to breach the walls.</p> - -<p>The Prince's large blue tent was -pitched on a slightly rising ground apart -from the others, and was constantly surrounded -by gorgeous officers in bright -yellow raiment, with round, flat black -hats and long feathers, who were galloping -to and fro, directing grand charges -of cavalry. It did seem so funny to see -a whole army of ponies; for there are -no horses here, unless the foreign residents -chance to import any.</p> - -<p>These Eight Banners are all Manchus -or Mongol Tartars, or at any rate are -descended from such, Chinese troops -being ranged under the green standard. -These Eight Banners which, as I have -said, are multiplied, are plain white, -red, blue, and yellow, and the same colors -repeated, and distinguished by a -white edge and white spot. These companies -are supposed to defend different -sides of the city, the colors having some -mystic relation to the points of the compass; -except that yellow is in the middle, -where it guards the Imperial Palace. -Red guards the south, blue the north, -and white the west, whilst the east is -nominally given up to the green standard, -which, however, being composed of -Chinamen, is not admitted to the honor -of guarding the forbidden city. I am -told that the Banner Army numbers upwards -of a hundred thousand men, who -supply Tartar garrisons for the principal -cities of the Empire.</p> - -<p>We got out of the cart and secured a -good position on a small hillock, whence -we had a capital view. A number of -Tartar soldiers who were off duty gathered -round, and were quite captivated -by the loan of my opera-glasses. Then -they showed us their wretched firearms -(which certainly did not look as if any -European could have superintended the -arsenal where they were manufactured), -and also their peculiar belts, containing -charges of powder only, and yet we are -told that in addition to first-class firearms, -which are being ceaselessly manufactured -at the Government arsenals at -Tientsin, Shanghai, Canton, Foochow, -Nankin, and other less important places, -the Chinese Government spares no expense -in buying both ammunition and -firearms of European manufacture. I -suppose they are kept in reserve for real -war!</p> - -<p>A picturesque company of archers -rode by on stout ponies, holding their -bridles in the right hand, and in the left -their bows, the arrows being cased in a -leathern quiver, slung across the shoulders. -As to their swords, instead of -hanging from the waist, they are stuck -under the saddle-flap; each man's cap -is adorned with the tails of two squirrels, -which is the correct military decoration. -Now though we Scots are quite -ready to believe that blackcocks were -created for the express purpose of bequeathing -their tails to adorn the caps -of the London Scottish (the said tails -having very much the jovial, independent -character of the bird itself), it really -is impossible to see the fitness of things -in selecting poor little squgs as military -emblems, unless to suggest the wisdom -of he who fights and runs away! Anyhow, -it now seems as if we might find a -profitable market for all the thousands -of squirrel's tails which are annually -wasted in our north-country woods. I -quite forgot to take note of the fan and -the pipe, which I am told are invariable -items in the accoutrements of the Chinese -soldiers.<a id="FNanchor_26_26" href="#Footnote_26_26" class="fnanchor">26</a></p> - -<p>Returning to our cart we next drove -to the Ta-tsoon-tsu, or Temple of the -Great Bell. It is a large Buddhist monastery. -The priests, who occupy separate -houses, are a civil, kindly lot, very -different from the Lamas of the Yung-ho-Kung! -There are curious paintings -of Buddhist saints in the halls; but the -great object of interest is the huge bell, -which is said to be the largest hanging -bell in the world. Anyhow, it is a wonderful -piece of casting, being nearly -eighteen feet high and forty-five feet in -circumference, and is of solid bronze -four inches thick. It is one of eight -great bells which were cast by command -of the Emperor Yung-lo about <span class="smcap">A.D.</span> -1400, and this giant is said to have cost -the lives of eight men, who were killed -during the process of casting. The -whole bell, both inside and out, is covered -with an inscription in embossed -Chinese characters about half an inch -long, covering even the handle, the total -number being 84,000! I am told that -this is a whole classic.</p> - -<p>This gigantic bell hangs in a two-storied -pagoda, and underneath the beam -from which it is suspended hangs a little -bell, and a favorite amusement of Chinese -visitors to the temple is to ascend -to a gallery, whence they throw small -coins at the little bell, in hopes of hitting -it, on the same principle, I suppose, that -they spit chewed prayer-papers at certain -gods in the hope of hitting them! -The throwing of cash is certainly more -profitable to the priests, as the coins fall -into a rim round the great bell and become -temple property. This great bell, -which is struck on the outside by a suspended -ram of wood, is only sounded -when—in times of drought—the Emperor -in person or the Imperial Princes -as his deputies come to this temple to -pray for rain. Theoretically, they are -supposed not to rise from their knees -till the rain falls in answer to their -prayer, and responsive to the vibrations -of the mighty bell.</p> - -<p>There is sore need of rain now, so I -suppose the bell will be struck ere long. -Apparently it is reserved as a last resource, -for already the little Emperor -and the Empresses Regent have been -pleading for rain in the gorgeous yellow -tiled temple at the entrance to the Forbidden -City, and Prince Yeh, as the -Emperor's deputy, has been repeatedly -sent to pray for rain in a most strange -open-air temporary sanctuary close to -the Bell Temple. We discovered this -quite by chance, having observed a large -circular inclosure in the middle of a field -of standing corn.</p> - -<p>We halted and went to see what it -was, and we found that it consisted of -eight screens of coarse yellow mats, with -great yellow dragons designed on them. -Four of the screens form a circle having -four gaps. The other four are straight, -and are placed outside, so as to guard -and conceal the entrances. In the centre -a square raised platform of earth -forms a rude altar, at the four corners -of which are four vases of the coarsest -pottery, containing plants; straggling -and much trampled corn grows between -and around them, as in the field outside. -In a small tent close by we found a -sleepy watchman, who told us about the -Prince's devotional visits to this very -primitive oratory.</p> - -<p>After four hours of intolerably weary -jolting in our dreadful cart, we arrived -at Wan-Shu-Shan, which is the only -portion of the grounds of the Summer -Palace (the Yuen-Ming-Yuen) to which -foreigners are still admitted, as they have -there wrought such hopeless ruin that I -suppose it is not thought worth while to -shut them out; and truly it is sickening -even now to look on such a scene of -devastation. The park, which is now -once more closed to the barbarians, -contains fine palatial buildings, faced -with colonnades and altogether of a very -Italian type, having been built under the -direction of the Jesuits, but the beautiful -pleasure grounds, where we wandered -over wooded hills all strewn with beautiful -ruins, is purely Chinese, and as such -is to me far more interesting.</p> - -<p>Our first halt was beside a well whose -waters are so deliciously crystalline and -cold that they seemed to our parched -and dusty throats as a true elixir. So -famous is this pure spring that the daily -supply for the Imperial Palace is brought -thence in barrels, in a cart flying a yellow -flag, with an inscription in black -characters stating that it travels on the -Emperor's business—a warning to all -men to make way for it. The water -near the city is all bad and brackish, so -such a spring as this is a priceless boon.</p> - -<p>This wonderland has been so often -described since its destruction, that in -its present aspect the whole seems familiar -ground; but it is new to me to learn -anything concerning it in its palmy days, -from the pen of an eyewitness, and so I -have been much interested in reading a -curious account of these Imperial pleasure-grounds -written in 1743 by Mons. -Attiret, a French missionary, whose talent -for painting led to his receiving an -order to make drawings for the Emperor -at the Summer Palace.</p> - -<p>He tells how he and his companions -were conducted to Peking by a Chinese -official, who would on no account allow -them to look out of the windows of -their covered boats to observe the country, -still less to land at any point. The -latter part of the journey they were carried -in litters, in which they were shut -up all the day long, only halting at -wretched inns. Naturally, when they -were released from this tedious captivity -and beheld these beautiful grounds—the -Yuen-Ming-Yuen—the Garden of gardens, -they supposed themselves in Paradise, -and here they seem to have remained -for a considerable time.</p> - -<p>M. Attiret describes the ornamental -buildings, containing the most beautiful -and valuable things that could be obtained -in China, the Indies, and even -Europe—ancient vases of fine porcelain, -silk cloths of gold and silver, carved -furniture of valuable wood, and all manner -of rare objects. He counted no less -than two hundred of these palaces, each -of which he declared to be large enough -to accommodate the greatest nobleman -in Europe with all his retinue. Some -of these towns were built of cedar-wood, -brought at great expense from a distance -of fifteen hundred miles; some -were gilded, painted, and varnished. -Many had their roofs covered with -glazed tiles of different colors, red, yellow, -blue, green, and purple, arranged -in patterns.</p> - -<p>What chiefly astonished the artist was -the variety which had been obtained in -designing these pleasure houses, not -only as regarded their general architecture -but such minor details as the forms -of the doors and windows, which were -round, oval, square, and of all manner -of angled figures, while some were -shaped like fans, others like flowers, -vases, birds, beasts, and figures.</p> - -<p>In the courts and passages he saw -vases of porcelain, brass, and marble -filled with flowers, while in the outer -courts stood mythological figures of animals, -and urns with perfumes burning -in them, resting on marble pedestals.</p> - -<p>Most of these buildings were but one -story high, and, being built on artificially -raised ground, were approached -by rough steps of artificial rock work. -Some of these were connected one with -another by fanciful winding porticoes or -colonnades, which in places were raised -on columns, and in others were so led -as to wind by the side of a grove or by -a river bank.</p> - -<p>Wonderful ingenuity was displayed in -so placing these houses as to secure the -greatest possible variety of situation, -and to command the most varied views. -Every natural feature of the ground had -been elaborated, so as to produce charming -landscapes, which could scarcely be -recognised as artificial; hills, of from -ten to sixty feet in height, were constructed, -divided by little valleys and -watered by clear streams forming cascades -and lakes, one of which was five -miles in circumference. On its calm -waters floated beautiful pleasure-boats, -including one magnificent house-boat for -the amusement of the ladies of the palace.</p> - -<p>In every direction, winding paths led -to quaint little pavilions and charming -grottoes, while artificial rock-work was -made the nursery for all manner of -beautiful flowers, much care being bestowed -on securing a great variety for -every season of the year. Flowering -trees were scattered over the grassy -hills, and their blossoms perfumed the -air. Each stream was crossed at frequent -intervals by most picturesque and -highly ornamental bridges of wood, -brick or freestone adorned with fanciful -kiosks, in which to repose while admiring -the view. He says the triumph of -art was to make these bridges twist -about in such an extraordinary manner -that they were often three times as long -as if they had been led in a direct line. -Near some of them were placed some -very remarkable triumphal arches, either -of elaborately carved wood or of marble.</p> - -<p>M. Attiret awards the palm of beauty -to a palace of a hundred apartments, -standing in an island in the middle -of the large lake, and commanding a -general view of all the other palaces, -which lay scattered round its shores, or -half concealed among the groves, which -were so planted as to screen them from -one another. Moreover, from this point -all the bridges were visible, as each rivulet -flowed to the lake, round which the -artificial hills rose in a series of terraces, -forming a sort of amphitheatre.</p> - -<p>On the brink of the lake were network -houses for all manner of strange waterfowl, -and in a large reservoir, inclosed -by a lattice work of fine brass wire, were -a multitude of beautiful gold and silver -fish. Other fish there were of all manner -of colors—red, blue, green, purple, -and black—these were likewise inclosed. -But the lake must have been well stocked, -as fishing was one of the favorite recreations -of the nobles.</p> - -<p>Sometimes there were mimic sea-fights -and other diversions for the entertainment -of the Court, and occasionally -illuminations, when every palace, every -boat, almost every tree was lighted up, -and brilliant fireworks, which M. Attiret -declared far exceeded anything of the -sort he had witnessed in France or -Italy.</p> - -<p>As to the variety of lanterns displayed -at the great Feast of Lanterns, it -was altogether amazing. From the ceiling -of every chamber in every palace, -they were suspended from the trees on -the hills, the kiosks on the bridges. -They were shaped like fishes, birds, and -beasts, vases, fruits, flowers, and boats -of different form and size. Some were -made of silk, some of horn, glass, -mother-of-pearl, and a thousand other -materials. Some were painted, some -embroidered, some so valuable that it -seemed as if they could not have been -produced under a thousand crowns. On -every rivulet, river, and lake floated -lanterns made in the form of little boats, -each adding something to the fairy-like -scene.</p> - -<p>At the time when the Barbarian army -so ruthlessly forced their way into this -Chinese paradise it was in the most perfect -order—a feature by no means common -even in the houses of the greatest -mandarins.</p> - -<p>Forty small palaces, each a marvel of -art, occupied beautiful sites within the -grounds, and the footpaths leading from -one to another were faultlessly neat. -The sheets of ornamental water, lakes, -and rivers were all clean, and each -marble bridge was a separate object of -beauty, while from out the dense foliage -on the hill, yellow tiled roofs, curled up -at the ends, gleamed like gold in the sunlight.</p> - - - -<p>Within the palace were stored such -treasures of exquisitely carved jade, -splendid old enamels, bronzes, gold and -silver, precious jewels of jade and rubies, -carved lapis lazuli, priceless furs and -richest silks, as could only have been -accumulated by a long dynasty of Celestial -rulers.</p> - -<p>Cruel indeed was the change when a -few hours later the allied forces arrived. -The English cavalry was the first to -reach the ground, but did not enter. -The French quickly followed by another -approach, and at once proceeded to sack -the palace; so that when the British were -allowed to join in the work of devastation -and indiscriminate plunder, all the -most obviously valuable treasure had -already been removed, while the floors -were strewn knee-deep with broken fragments -of priceless china, and every sort -of beautiful object too cumbersome or -too fragile for rough and ready removal, -and therefore ruthlessly smashed with the -butt ends of muskets, to say nothing of -the piles of most gorgeous silks and -satins and gold embroideries, which lay -unheeded among the ruins.</p> - -<p>Then when the best of the steeds had -been stolen, the doors were locked and -Indian troops were posted to guard the -treasures that remained (no easy task), -till it should be possible to divide them -equally between the forces. When this -had been done the share apportioned to -the British was at once sold by public -auction, in order that an immediate distribution -of prize money might allay the -very natural jealousy which would otherwise -have been aroused by the sight of -French soldiers laden with the Sycee -silver and other treasures which they -had appropriated.</p> - -<p>But though wagon-loads of what -seemed the most precious objects were removed, -these were as nothing compared -with what was left and destroyed, when -the order was given to commence the -actual demolition of the principal buildings: -a work on which two regiments -were employed for two whole days, ere -the hand of the destroyer was stayed -by a treaty of peace, and so happily a -few wonderful and unique buildings still -remain as a suggestion of vanished -glories.</p> - -<p>Of course all this was done with the -best possible intentions, by way of -punishing the Emperor himself and his -great nobles for the official deeds of -treachery, rather than injure the innocent -citizens of Peking. Yet it seems that -these would have accepted any amount -of personal loss and suffering rather -than this barbarous destruction of an -Imperial glory—an act which has so impressed -the whole nation with a conviction -that all foreigners are barbarous -Vandals, that it is generally coupled with -their determined pushing of the opium -trade. These two crimes form the -double-barrelled weapon of reproach -wherewith Christian missionaries in all -parts of the Empire are assailed, and -their work grievously hindered.</p> - -<p>We devoted about three hours to exploring -these beautiful grounds, of which -might well be said, “Was never scene -so sad so fair!” Even the ornamental -timber was cut for firewood by the allied -barbarians, though enough remains to -beautify the landscape.</p> - -<p>The grounds are enclosed by a handsome -wall of dark-red sandstone with a -coping of glazed tiles, and its warm color -contrasts pleasantly with the rich greens -of the park and the lovely blue lake with -its reedy shores, and floating lotus blossoms. -One of the most conspicuous objects -is a very handsome stone bridge of -seventeen arches, graduated from quite -small arches on either side to very high -ones in the centre. It is commonly -called the marble bridge, because of its -beautiful white marble balustrades with -about fifty pillars on either side, on each -of which sits a marble lion, and of all -these I am told that no two are quite alike. -Each end of this bridge is guarded by -two large lions, also of marble. This -bridge connects the mainland with an -island about a quarter of a mile in circumference; -it is entirely surrounded -with a marble balustrade like that of the -bridge. In the centre of the isle is an -artificial mound, on which, approached -by flights of steps, and enclosed by yet -another marble balustrade, are the ruins -of what must have been a beautiful temple.</p> - -<p>Another very striking bridge, which -spans a stream flowing into the lake, is -called the Camel's Hump, and has only -one very steep arch, about forty feet -high. What makes this look so very peculiar -is the fact that the banks on either -side are almost level with the stream, so -the elevation is purely fanciful. The -bridge also has a beautiful marble balustrade.</p> - -<p>A third, very similar to this last, -crosses another winding of the stream, -where it flows through flooded rice-fields, -and so appears like an extension -of the lake. Along this stream there -is a fine avenue of willow-trees fully a -mile in length.</p> - -<p>Ascending a wooded hill, which is -dotted all over with only partially -destroyed buildings, we thence had a -most lovely view of all the park, looking -down on the blue lake, the winding -streams, the various bridges, the blue -mountain range, and the distant city of -Peking with a foreground of most picturesque -temple buildings and fine Scotch -firs, dark rocks and green creepers.</p> - -<p>Though the general feeling is one of -desolation (as one climbs stairways, -passing between numberless mounds of -rubble, entirely composed of beautifully -glazed tiles of every color of the rainbow, -and all in fragments), there are, -nevertheless, some isolated buildings -which happily have quite escaped. -Among these are several most beautiful -seven-story pagodas. Of one, which is -octagonal, the lower story is adorned -with finely sculptured Indian gods. -Two others are entirely faced and roofed -with the loveliest porcelain tiles—yellow -gold, bright green, and deep blue. -They are exquisitely delicate and are -quite intact; even the tremulous bells -suspended from the leaves still tinkling -with every breath of air.</p> - -<p>Another building, which is still almost -perfect, is a beautiful little bronze -temple, near to which is a fine triple -pai-low, or commemorative arch, and -there are others of indescribable form, -such as a little globe resting on a great -one, and the whole surmounted by a -spire representing fourteen canopies. -But nothing save colored sketches (of -which I secured a few) could really give -any idea of this strange place or of these -singular buildings.</p> - -<p>On the summit of the hill there still -stands a very large two-storied brick -building, entirely faced with glittering -glazed tiles of dazzling yellow, emerald -green, and blue, with a double roof of -yellow porcelain tiles; among its decorations -are a multitude of images of Buddha -in brown china. It is approached by a -grand triple gateway of white marble and -colored tiles, like one we saw at the Confucian -temple in the city of Peking.</p> - -<p>There are also a great variety of -huge stone pillars and tablets, all highly -sculptured; the dragon and other -mythical animals appearing in all directions. -There are bronze beasts and -marble beasts, but only those of such -size and weight as to have baulked all -efforts of thieving visitors, whether -native or foreign, whose combined -efforts have long since removed every -portable image and ornament.</p> - -<p>To me the most interesting group of -ruins is a cluster of very ornamental -small temple buildings, some with conical, -others, with tent-shaped roofs, but -all glazed with the most brilliantly green -tiles, and all the pillars and other woodwork -painted deep red. On either side -of the principal building are two very -ornamental pagoda-shaped temples, exactly -alike, except that the green roof -of one is surmounted by a dark-blue -china ornament, the other by a similar -ornament in bright yellow.</p> - -<p>Each is built to contain a large rotatory -cylinder on the prayer-wheel principle, -with niches for a multitude of -images. In fact they are small editions -of two revolving cylinders with five hundred -disciples of Buddha, which attracted -me at the great Lama temple as -being the first link to Japanese Scripture-wheels, -or Thibetan prayer-wheels which -I have seen in China, and the existence -of which has apparently passed unnoticed. -It is needless to add that of -course every image has been stolen, and -only the revolving stands now remain in -a most rickety condition.</p> - -<p>When we could no longer endure the -blazing heat, we descended past what -appears to have been the principal temple, -of which absolutely nothing remains -standing—only a vast mound of brilliant -fragments of broken tiles, lying on a -great platform; steep zigzag stairs -brought us to the foot of the hill, where -great bronze lions still guard the forsaken -courts.</p> - -<p>Parched with thirst, we returned to the -blessed spring of truly living water, and -drank and drank again, cup after cup, -till the very coolies standing by laughed. -Then once again climbing into the -horrible vehicle of torture, we retraced -our morning route, till we reached a -very nice clean restaurant, where we -ordered luncheon. We were shown into -a pretty little airy room upstairs, commanding -a very fine view of the grounds -we had just left. After the preliminary -tiny cup of pale yellow tea, basins of -boiling water were brought in, with a -bit of flannel floating in each, that we -might wash off the dust in orthodox -Chinese fashion. The correct thing is -to wring out the flannel, and therewith -rub the face and neck with a view to -future coolness.</p> - -<p>Luncheon (eaten with chop sticks, -which I can now manage perfectly) consisted -of the usual series of small dishes, -little bits of cold chicken with sauce, -little bits of hot chicken boiled to rags, -morsels of pork with mushrooms, fragments -of cold duck with some other sort -of fungus, watery soup, scraps of pigs' -kidneys with boiled chestnuts, very -coarse rice, pickled cucumber, garlic and -cabbage, patty of preserved shrimps, all -in infinitesimal portions, so that, but -for the plentiful supply of rice, hungry -folk would find it hard to appease the -inner wolf. Tiny cups of rice wine -followed by more tea completed the repast -for which a sum equivalent to sixteen -shillings was demanded, and of -course refused; nevertheless, necessitating -a troublesome argument.</p> - -<p>We hurried away as soon as possible, -being anxious to visit a very famous -Lama temple, the “Wang-Tzu,” or -Yellow Temple. As we drove along I -was amazed to notice how singularly -numerous magpies are hereabouts. -They go about in companies of six or -eight, and are so tame and saucy that -they scarcely take the trouble to hop -aside as we pass.</p> - -<p>Though the drive seemed very long -still, we never suspected anything amiss -till suddenly we found ourselves near the -gates of the city; when we discovered -that our worthy carter, assuming that he -knew the time better than we did, and -that we should be locked out of the city -at sunset, had deliberately taken a wrong -road, and altogether avoided the Yellow -Temple. Reluctantly yielding to British -determination, he sorrowfully turned, -and we had to endure a long extra -course of bumping ere we reached the -temple, which is glazed with yellow tiles -(an Imperial privilege which is conceded -to Lamas).</p> - -<p>This is a very large Lama monastery, -full of objects of interest, of which the -most notable is a very fine white marble -monument to a grand Lama who died -here. It is of a purely Indian design, and -all round it are sculptured scenes in the -life and death of Buddha, Of course, -having lost so much time, we had very -little to spare here, so once more betook -us to the cart and jolted back to -Peking.</p> - -<p>As we crossed the dreary expanse of -dusty plain, a sharp wind sprang up, and -we had a moderate taste of the horrors -of a dust-storm, and devoutly hope -never to be subjected to a real one.</p> - -<p>The dread of being locked out is by -no means unfounded. Punctually at a -quarter to six, one of the soldiers on -guard strikes the gong which hangs at -the door, and continues doing so for five -minutes with slow regular strokes. Then -a quickened beat gives notice that only -ten minutes' grace remains, then more -and more rapidly fall the strokes, and the -accustomed ear distinguishes five varieties -of beat, by which it is easy to calculate -how many minutes remain. From -the first stroke every one outside the -gate hurries towards them, and carts, -foot passengers, and riders stream into -the city with much noise and turmoil. -At six o'clock precisely the guard unite -in a prolonged unearthly shout, announcing -that time is up. Then the -ponderous gates are closed, and in -another moment the rusty lock creaks, -and the city is secure for the night.</p> - -<p>Then follows the frightful and unfragrant -process of street watering, of which -we had full benefit, as our tired mule -slowly dragged us back to our haven of -rest under the hospitable roof of the -London Missionary Society.—<cite>Belgravia.</cite></p> - - - - - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="THE_CAMORRA">THE CAMORRA.</h2> - -<p>Most foreign visitors to Naples are -inclined to think that the Camorra is as -entirely a thing of the past as the Swiss -guards that used to protect the King of -the Two Sicilies, or the military pageant -that was formerly held in honor of Santa -Maria Piedigrotta, the Madonna who -was once nominated commander-in-chief -of the Neapolitan armies, and led them -to victory. Young men with gorgeous, -if somewhat tawdry, caps and jewelry -are no longer to be seen sauntering -through the streets and markets with an -insolent air of mastery which no one -dares to question; and the old man who -used to collect money for the lamps of -the Madonna—a request which, somehow, -no coachman ever refused—have -vanished from the cabstands. The outward -glory of the Camorra has passed -away; it is anxious now to conceal instead -of displaying its power; but -among the older residents in Naples -there are many who believe that this -strange secret society has never exercised -a greater influence than it does at -present, though it is possible that the interest -it is said to have lately taken in -politics may lead to its fall. In fact, -such an interference in public affairs is -a distinct departure from the principles -on which the earlier traditions of the -association were founded.</p> - -<p>The whole subject is of course -shrouded in mystery. There are important -points connected with it on -which it is impossible to obtain trustworthy -information, as all who have any -real knowledge of the facts have the -strongest personal reasons for concealing -them. Still, the organization of the -lower ranks of the society is well known -to the police, and it is by no means impossible -to form a clear conception of -its real character and aims, though it is -necessary to sift every statement made -about them with unusual care, as the -inquirer must be on his guard not only -against the romance and exaggeration of -popular fancy, but also against a desire -to mislead. It is only by inadvertence -that any correct information is likely to -be given, and as soon as the stranger -exhibits an interest in the subject, he is -supplied with a splendid stock of pure -inventions. He must look and listen, -and refrain from questioning as much as -possible, unless he has the good fortune -to meet an intelligent official connected -with the police, or still better one who -served the deposed dynasty. Before -entering on the subject itself, however, -a digression will be necessary in order -to explain to English readers how such -an association could be formed, and -what were the circumstances that favored -its growth and have hitherto secured its -existence.</p> - -<p>With respect to Sicily, Dr. Franchetti -tells us that, whenever several men combine -to support their own interests in opposition -to those of their neighbors, that -is Mafia. Where the condition of society -is favorable, such combinations become -exceedingly powerful. The strongest, -the most enterprising, and the most violent -inhabitants unite together. The will -of each member is law in as far as the -outside world is concerned; in executing -it his companions will shrink neither from -force nor fraud, and all they expect is that -he should be ready to render similar services -in his turn. When such a body has -been formed in a district where the law -is not powerful enough to hold it in -check, the other members of the community -must either tamely submit to its oppressions, -put themselves under its protection, -or form a new Mafia of their own. -Now the Camorra is only a fully-developed -and highly-organized Mafia.</p> - -<p>It owes its long existence and its great -influence chiefly to two circumstances. -Family feeling in Naples is much stronger -than in the North. Not only do parents -and children, brothers and sisters cling -together through life, but even distant -cousins are recognized as relations -whose interests must be guarded and -advanced. If your cook's uncle happens -to have a friend who is a butcher, -nothing will induce him to buy your -meat at any other shop; if your boy is -sent to fetch a cab, he will waste half an -hour looking for some distant acquaintance -of his aunt's. As soon as you -take a servant your custom becomes the -property of his family connections. If -you attempt to prevent this, you only -embitter your life with a vain endeavor -to thwart petty intrigues. If you dismiss -your man, you only change your -set of tradesmen; if you submit good -humoredly, you soon begin to be regarded -as a patron of the whole family, -and will therefore be treated with all -fitting consideration and esteem. The -single members will serve you honestly, -and even go out of their way to please -you. It is clear that a society so clannish -is excellently suited for a Mafia.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, the uncertainty of -the law under the old dynasty might well -serve as an excuse for a good deal of self-assertion -and self-defence. The tyranny -of the Bourbons, it is true, was chiefly -exercised upon the educated members of -the middle class, whom they suspected, -not unjustly, of designs against their rule. -For the poor and the uneducated they -did a good deal, often in a rather unwise -way, and they never seem intentionally -to have oppressed them. But the police -are generally said to have been corrupt, -the influence of the man of birth and -wealth was great, and it was doubtless at -times capriciously exercised. Against -this the individual was powerless; when -a large number were bound together by -secret pledges, they could ensure respect -and consideration.</p> - -<p>It must not, however, be thought that -there was anything heroic even in the -old Camorra. It was not a league of -justice and freedom, but simply an -association which was pledged to advance -the interests of its members, to -right their wrongs, and to protect them to -the utmost against every external power, -including that of the law. And it has -always maintained this character. -Though it has occasionally done acts of -justice and mercy, these are by no -means its chief, or even an important, -object; though many of its members -belong to the criminal classes, it is not -a society for the furtherance of crime. -It pays no respect to the law except from -prudential motives, and, as it has often -dirty work to do, it makes use of dirty -hands; but many men in all classes who -are otherwise perfectly honest and respectable -belong to it, and find their -advantage in doing so.</p> - -<p>To a certain extent, however, the -aims of the Camorra have grown with -the growth of its power. In the face of -so powerful an association, it became -necessary for those who did not belong -to it to take steps to guard their own -interests, and most of them did so by -seeking its protection. This could be -obtained by the payment of a tribute -which consisted either of a fixed tax or -of a percentage on profits. Thus the -association claims, and has long claimed, -a right to levy an impost on all meat, -fish, fruit, and vegetables exposed for -sale in the markets, on all goods sold in -the streets, on the winnings in all games -of chance played in public, and on all -cab hire. Very stringent laws have -been enacted against this practice, and -the Government has from time to time -made energetic efforts to suppress it, but -without success. The peasants and fishermen -are eager to pay the illegal tax. -The threat not to accept it will awe the -most refractory among them into obedience -to the other regulations of the Association, -for they know that if the countenance -of the Society is withdrawn, it -will soon become impossible for them -to visit the market. For a week or two -they may thrive under the exceptional -care of the police, but as soon as the -attention of the authorities relaxes, customers -will be crowded away from their -stalls, their goods will be pilfered, and -their boats or carts, as the case may be, -either seriously injured or put vexatiously -out of gear. The mere fact -that the Camorra has ceased to favor -So-and-so is enough to expose him to -the violence and the wiles of half the -roughs and thieves of the district, as -well as to the tricks and torments of the -most impish crowd of street boys that -any European town can show.</p> - -<p>The Camorra dues are, therefore, an -insurance against theft and annoyance. -Those who pay them are not members of -the fraternity, they for the most part -know nothing of its constitution, and -they can make no claim upon it, except -for protection, on their way from the -gates of the town to the market-place, and -during their stay there. This, however, -is highly valuable, and it is honestly exercised. -Some years ago a party of -fishermen brought a rather unusual supply -to market, and left their wares standing -at the accustomed place while they -went into a neighboring coffee-house to -breakfast. They were stolen, and the -men applied to the official representative -of the Camorra as naturally an -Englishman would to the police. He -asked some questions, took a few notes, -and then bid them leave the market for a -time, and come back at a certain hour. -They did so, and on their return found -their fish standing where they had -originally left it, “not a sardine was -missing.” Such events are constantly -occurring.</p> - -<p>The almost unlimited influence which -the association exercises over the criminal -classes is due less to the fact that many -of them are enrolled among its members -than to the extraordinary information it -can command as to any detail of city life. -In every district it has a body of highly-trained -agents, as to whose education -and organization we may perhaps have -an opportunity of saying something in a -future number. These men are all eye -and ear, and if a question is proposed to -them by their superiors as to the private -life of any one who resides in their district, -it will go hard if they are not able -to supply a trustworthy answer in a few -days. Hence it would be almost impossible -for a criminal to escape the -officers of justice if the Camorra -sincerely desired his arrest. It never -interferes in such matters, however, except -when one of its members or tributaries -has been wronged, and compensation -is refused. This rarely happens; -but when it does it is said that its vengeance -is swift and implacable, while it -takes the perfectly legal form of a judicial -sentence. Nor does the victim -escape from its power when the prison -gates close upon him. Some members -of the association are almost sure to be -confined within the same gloomy precincts, -and they spare no pains to render -the life of the foe of their society intolerable -by a thousand petty vexations -which the gaolers could not prevent, -even if they cared to incur the personal -danger of endeavoring to do so. As a -rule, they prefer to stand on a good -footing with the Camorrists, and to employ -their influence in keeping the other -prisoners in order.</p> - -<p>When a dispute arises, either in the -streets or market-places, between persons -who have purchased the protection -of the association, it is usually referred -to one of its agents whose decision is -regarded as final, and so great is the -reputation of many of these men for -justice and fair play, that they are frequently -requested to arbitrate on matters -with which they have officially no concern -whatever. On such occasions it is -usual to make a present to the amateur -judge, proportionate in worth to the -matter he has settled, or at least to invite -him to a sumptuous dinner. In a -similar way these Camorrists form the -court of honor of the lazzaroni. All -questions of vendetta which have their -origin in a sense of honor rather than -personal hatred are submitted to them, -and it is only just to recognize that they -almost invariably do their best to bring -about a reconciliation, though they themselves -are notoriously ready to use their -knives. In a word, whatever the ultimate -purposes of the Camorra may be—they -are doubtless always lawless, and -not unfrequently criminal—its influence -over the poorer classes is not an unmixed -evil. It is unscrupulous both in forming -and executing its designs, but when -its own interests are not involved, it can -be both just and merciful. There are -honest and well-to-do tradesmen in Naples -who would never have risen from -the gutter, if, in their boyhood, the -Camorra had not given them a fair start -and something more.—<cite>Saturday Review.</cite></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="THE_DECAY_OF_IRISH_HUMOR">THE DECAY OF IRISH HUMOR.</h2> - - -<p>The above heading was suggested to -us by a friend as the subject of a paper -some months back, but it was not until -much time had elapsed, and not a little -reflection had been devoted to the -matter, that we felt ourselves constrained -to admit its unwelcome truth. For -to acknowledge that Irish humor is on -the wane is a serious admission at the -present day, when we are suffering from -an undoubted dearth of that commodity -on this side of the Channel; when laughter -has been effectually quenched at St. -Stephen's; when our interest in the best -comic paper is almost entirely centred in -the illustrations, and not the text; and -when we have grown to be strangely dependent -upon America for light reading -of all sorts. This year—an exceptionally -uninteresting year for the reader—has, -it is true, been marked by a new departure -or a reaction in the direction -of startling sensation and melodramatic -plots—engendered perhaps by a desire -to escape from the unromantic common -placeness of our daily surroundings, -culminating in Mr. Stevenson's tale, -“The Bodysnatcher,” in the Christmas -number of the <cite>Pall Mall Gazette</cite>, which -literally reeks of the charnel-house. But -this movement, apart from its general -literary or constructive merit, is from -its very nature opposed to sunshine and -mirth. The advent of a new humorist -was hailed by some critics on the appearance -of “Vice Versâ,” but his second -considerable contribution to fiction, -“The Giant's Robe,” is anything but a -cheerful book. Lastly, at least two conscious -and elaborate attempts have been -made during the last six months to transplant -the squalid anatomical photography -of Zola into the realm of English fiction. -Where, then, in these latter days are -we to look for native humorists? Not -in the ranks of Irish politicians surely, -for the Irish political fanatic is anything -but a comic personage, and the whole -course of the Nationalist agitation has -been unredeemed by any humorous -passage. There are no Boyle Roches, -or O'Connells, or Dowses, or even -O'Gormans, to be found amongst the -followers of Mr. Parnell. The cold, -impassive address of their leader, utterly -un-Irish in its character, and, perhaps, -only the more effective on that account, -has infected them all. Mr. O'Donnell -has now and then let fly a sardonic -shaft; but Mr. Justin McCarthy reserves -his graceful pleasantry for the -pages of his novels, save no one occasion -when Mr. Gladstone pounced down on -a “bull” of preternatural magnitude. -Acrimony, virulence, and powers of invective, -these are abundantly displayed -by Messrs. Sexton, Healy, and O'Brien; -but as for humor, there is none of it. -For otherwise would they not have seen -the logical outcome of their decision (we -speak of the Nationalists as a whole) to -rename the Dublin streets,—we mean the -corollary that they should in many cases -divest themselves also of their indubitably -Sassenach patronymics in favor of -Celtic and national names? From their -own point of view, Charles Stewart Parnell -is an odious combination, and should -give place, let us say, to Brian Boroihme -O'Toole. If we turn from politics to -literature, we shall find much the same -state of things prevailing. Irishmen are -remarkably successful as journalists, but -the prizes of that profession draw them -away from their own country; their lives -are spent amid other surroundings, less -favorable to the development of their -characteristic humor, which encourage -their facile wits to waste themselves in -mere over-production. Some of the -very best specimens of recent Irish -verse are to be found in the pages of -<cite>Kottabos</cite>, a magazine supported by the -members of Trinity College, Dublin. -But although it is hardly a good sign -that the best work of this kind should -flourish under Academic patronage, we -have been sincerely grieved to learn that -<cite>Kottabos</cite> is no more, and the goodly -company of <i>Kottabistæ</i> finally disbanded.</p> - -<p>If we descend to the other end of the -social scale, we shall find that a variety -of causes have conspired to diminish or -even destroy the sense of humor with the -possession of which tradition has credited -the Irish peasant. It is only fair, -however, to premise that much of what -strikes an appreciative visitor as humorous -in the speech of an Irish peasant is -wholly unconscious in the speaker, and -arises from his casting his sentences in -the diffuse form of his mother-tongue, -or from his use of imposing phrases picked -up from the books read during his -school-time. The first of these causes -probably accounts for many picturesque -expressions, such as “to let a screech -out of oneself;” where an Englishman -would merely say, “to shout,” or -“screech;” the second explains the use -of words like “extricate,” “congratulate,” -by bare-legged gossoons in remote -mountain glens. Among the destructive -agents alluded to above, the tourist occupies -a prominent position. For when the -native inhabitants at any favorite place -of resort found that it paid them to -amuse the visitors, they cultivated the -faculty and spoilt it in the cultivation. If -we are asked for an example, we have only -to mention the Killarney guide, a creature -who is to every true Irishman <em>anathema</em>,—a -tedious retailer of stories concocted -during the slack season. A more -serious cause of decay of late years has -been the emigration which is slowly draining -certain districts of the South and -West of the cream of their population. -In some parts of Kerry it is well-nigh -impossible to get young and vigorous -laborers; and the national game of -“hurly” has completely died out, in -consequence of the dearth of able-bodied -players. We regard this as a serious -loss, for though matches between the -teams of rival villages often led to subsequent -“ructions,” the game was a fine -one and a good outlet for the excitable -side of the Celtic character, which now -finds a far less healthy field for expansion. -All attempts to teach the peasants -cricket have failed. Though fine -athletes and unsurpassed jumpers, they -lacked the coolness, the patience, and -faculty of co-operating so essential to -success in cricket. From this absence -of vigorous youth, there results a dearth -of “play-boys”—<i>i.e.</i>, jokers, merry fellows—which -is not likely to be remedied -in this generation. Even in former -years, before the <i lang="fr">entente cordiale</i> between -landlord and tenant had been so rudely -severed, it struck us as a symptom of decadence—unless, -may-be, it was a mere -compliment to the “quality,”—that on -all festive gatherings where gentle and -simple met on a friendly footing, the -singers as often as not chose for the -delectation of their superiors some old -popular music-hall song of six or seven -seasons back, which had filtered down -from London through the provinces to -Dublin, and so slowly made its way into -our remote district. Thus we have heard -“The Grecian Bend” rendered with the -richest brogue imaginable, which partly -alleviated the Philistinism of the song. -The Irish peasantry, it should be remarked, -do not sing Moore's Irish melodies, -with few exceptions, in spite of the -charm of the airs to which the words -are wedded, which is an adequate proof, -if any were wanted, that he has no claim -to be considered a national poet. Few -readers realise that by far his finest work -is in the domain of satire, on which his -title to immortality is far more securely -based than on his erotic dactyls. Nor -do the peasants, as a rule, know much of -Lover, whose amusing ballads have a -great and well-merited popularity in the -middle and upper classes of Irish society. -The reason of this is, perhaps, to be -found in the character of the music, generally -Lover's own, which is a sort of -compromise between an Irish melody of -the flowing type and the modern drawing-room -ballad. Genuine Irish music -is a barbarous thing enough—a wild, -nasal chant, freely embellished with trills -and turns—and to this setting the peasantry -in the outlying districts still sing a -good many songs in Irish or in English, -in the latter case generally translations. -To this must be added a certain number -of ballads which trace their source to the -events of the last few years. Nothing -can be gained from an attempt to write -down the Land League from a literary -point of view, and we are very far from -harboring such an intention. But these -songs are, in the main, dreary and abusive, -as one might naturally expect, for -the events of recent years have not been -conducive to mirth in Ireland. Here -is a fragment from one on the landlords -of Ireland:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">“The bare, barren mountains and bog, I must state,</div> - <div class="verse">The poor Irish farmer he must cultivate;</div> - <div class="verse">Whilst the land-shark is watching</div> - <div class="verse">His chance underhand,</div> - <div class="verse">To gobble his labor, his house, and his land.</div> - <div class="verse">But the Devil is fishing, and he'll soon get a pull,</div> - <div class="verse">Of those bad landlords and agents</div> - <div class="verse">His net is near full....</div> - <div class="verse">Then hurrah! for the Land League,</div> - <div class="verse">And Parnell so brave;</div> - <div class="verse">Each bad landlord, my boys,</div> - <div class="verse">We'll muzzle him tight.</div> - <div class="verse">May the banner of freedom</div> - <div class="verse">And green laurels wave</div> - <div class="verse">O'er the men of the Land League,</div> - <div class="verse">And Parnell so brave.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>Irish humor is not dead yet, but it is -decaying or dormant; and if ever, in -spite of the malign influence of the Gulf -Stream, and the Nationalist Party, and -a sense of their past wrongs, and race-hatred, -and half-a-dozen other drawbacks, -Ireland should recover her sanity -and grow prosperous and contented, -then, and not till then, may we expect to -see her sons grow merry as well as wise,—unless, -indeed, their sense of humor -is entirely improved out of them in the -process. Judging from the character of -the men of Antrim, this is not impossible. -But valuable as is the gift of humor, -the harmony of Great Britain would -not be too dearly bought by its sacrifice.—<cite>The -Spectator.</cite></p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="PRINCE_BISMARCKS_CHARACTER">PRINCE BISMARCK'S CHARACTER.</h2> - -<p>The late general election in Germany -showed results which have signally verified -Prince Bismarck's calculations on -the tendencies of modern democracy.</p> - -<p>The Liberalists, who represent the -opinions of the Manchester school, lost -a great number of seats—no less than -forty-four; while signal victories were -won by the Conservatives, the Catholics, -and the Socialists. The doctrines of -the Liberals were treated with unequivocal -contempt in the large cities, and -several members of the party retained -their seats only through the support -grudgingly given to them by Socialist -electors at the second ballot. At the -first ballot the Socialists testified to -their absolute hatred of the Liberals by -voting for Conservative or Catholic candidates -in constituencies where they -were not strong enough to carry candidates -of their own; but at the second -ballot they dictated terms to the sorely -mortified party whose overthrow they -had caused, and agreed to assist Liberals -who promised to vote for a repeal of -the law against Socialists. The Liberals -swallowed the leek and made the promise, -though throughout the electoral campaign -they had denounced the Socialists -as the worst enemies of human progress. -The Socialists, on their side, went -to the polls as if obeying the injunction -which Ferdinand Lassalle laid upon -working-men eighteen months before -his death<a id="FNanchor_27_27" href="#Footnote_27_27" class="fnanchor">27</a>: “I have always been a Republican, -but, promise me, my friends, -that if ever a struggle should take place -between the Divine Right Monarchy and -the miserable Liberal middle-class, -you will fight on the King's side against -the <i lang="fr">bourgeois</i>.”</p> - -<p>German Conservatives have regretted -that Lassalle died at least six years too -soon, for it is supposed that if he had -witnessed the triumphs of Bismarck's -policy and the unification of Germany -after the war of 1870, he would have -used his influence over the working -classes to make them trust the great -and successful champion of their nation. -This, however, is doubtful, for -the post-mortem examination of Lassalle's -body revealed that he had in him -the germs of disease by which his intellect -would have gradually deteriorated. -He had become a voluptuary before he -died, and had he lived a little longer he -might simply have been dazzled by the -conqueror s glory, and have lost his influence -by accepting honors and favors -too readily as the reward of his homage. -On the other hand, if Lassalle had remained -head-whole and heart-whole, -Bismarck and he could not have lived -together. Both giants, one must have -succumbed to the other after some formidable -encounter. The two spent an -afternoon in company at the height of -the <i lang="de">Conflikt-Zeit</i>, when Bismarck was -wrestling with the Liberal opposition in -the Prussian Parliament. They smoked -and drank beer, laughed like old friends -over the events of the day, talked long -and with deepening earnestness over -the world's future, and separated well -pleased with each other. But Lassalle -is believed to have shown his hand a -little too openly to his host. There were -points where the policy of the two blended, -and one point of ultimate convergence -might have been found if Lassalle's -only object had been to seek it; but his -personal ambition was at least equal to -his zeal as a reformer. “He is a composer,” -said Edward Lasker, “who will -never think his music well executed unless -he conducts the orchestra.”</p> - -<p>It is well to remember what were the -views of Lassalle about Germany, and -how much they differed from those of -his inferior successor in the leadership -of the Socialists, Karl Marx. In a historical -tragedy, “Franz von Sickingen,” -which Lassalle published in 1859, he declared -that “the sword is the god of -this world, the word made flesh, the -instrument of all great deliverances, the -necessary tool of all useful undertakings.” -In the 3d scene of Act III. Franz -von Sickingen, the hero in whom Lassalle -portrays himself, exclaims against -the sordid ambition of petty princes, -adding: “How are you to make the -soul of a giant enter into the bodies of -pigmies? ... what we want is a strong -and united Germany free from the yoke -of Rome—an empire under an evangelical -emperor.”<a id="FNanchor_28_28" href="#Footnote_28_28" class="fnanchor">28</a></p> - -<p>This has been also the wish of Bismarck's -life—and this wish he has -realised; the obstacles he had to surmount -before achieving success offer a -most curious subject for study. The political -difficulties have furnished matter -for many books, but something remains -to be said of the social difficulties.</p> - -<p>“A conqueror's enemies are not all -in front of him,” said Wallenstein, and -we know Voltaire's apologue about -that “grain of sand in the eye which -checked Alexander's march.” Bismarck, -like other great fighters, has had to -shake off friends—real friends—tugging -at his arm. He has had to foil boudoir -cabals more powerful than Parliamentary -majorities. He has got into those -little scrapes which Lord Beaconsfield -compared to sudden fogs in a park: -“You may have the luck to walk -straight home through them, or they -may cause you to go miles out of your -way and to miss anything, from a dinner -to an appointment on which all -your prospects depend.” Bismarck -again has known the worry and agony -of being unable to convince persons of -thick head or of timorous conscience, -whose co-operation was absolutely indispensable -to him. Lord Chesterfield -well said that the manner of a man's -discourse is of more weight than the -matter, for there are more people with -ears to be charmed than with minds to -understand. Bismarck is no charmer; -he has had to contend with the disadvantage -of cumbersome speech moved -by slow thoughts, and of a temper inflammable -as touchwood. For many -years he was considered by those who -knew him best to be more of a trooper -than a politician.</p> - -<p>Lord Ampthill once found him reading -Andersen's story on the Ugly Duckling, -which relates how a duck hatched -a swan's egg, and how the cygnet was -jeered at by his putative brethren, the -ducklings, until one day a troop of lordly -swans, floating down the river, saluted -him as one of their race. “Ah,” -observed Bismarck, “it was a long time -before my poor mother could be persuaded -that in hatching me she had -not produced a goose.”</p> - -<p>Bismarck was born in 1814, and at -the age of seventeen went to the University -of Göttingen. Here he joined -a <i lang="de">Verbindung</i>—one of those student -associations whose members wear flat -caps of many colors, hold interminable -<i lang="de">Kneipen</i> or beer-carousals, and fight rapier -duels with the members of other -clubs. Bismarck's <i lang="de">Verbindung</i> was select, -containing none but the sons of -noblemen, and it called itself by Kotzebue's -name, out of antagonism to a Liberal -club which was named after Karl -Sand, Kotzebue's murderer.<a id="FNanchor_29_29" href="#Footnote_29_29" class="fnanchor">29</a> There -hangs in one of the rooms at Varzin, a -pencil sketch of young Otto Bismarck -fighting with a “Sandist” who was the -great swashbuckler of his party. Both -combatants are dressed, as is still the -custom for such meetings, in padded -leather jackets, tall hats, iron spectacles -with wire netting over the glasses, and -they wear thick stocks covering all the -neck and throat. Only parts of the -face are exposed, the object of the fighters -being not to inflict deadly injuries, -but to slit each other's cheeks, or to -snip off the tip of a nose. Bismarck's -adversary, named Konrad Koch, was a -towering fellow with such a long arm -that he had all the advantage; and after -a few passes he snicked Bismarck along -the left cheek down to the chin, making -a wound of which the scar can be -seen to this day. But before the duel -he had bragged that he would make the -“Kotzebuan” wear the “Sandist” -color, red—and, laughing triumphantly -at the fulfilment of his threat, as he saw -Bismarck drenched in blood, he so infuriated -the latter that the Kotzebuan -insisted on having another bout. This -was contrary to the regulations of student -duels, which always end with first -blood, so Bismarck had to take patience -until his cut was healed, and until he -could prove his fitness to meet Koch -again, by worsting a number of Sandists. -The rapier duels were, and are -now, regular Saturday afternoon pastimes, -taking place in a gymnastic room, -and the combatants on either side being -drawn by lot; but it is a rule that, -when a student has beaten an opponent, -he may decline duelling with him again -until this antagonist works his way up -to him, so to say, by prevailing over all -other swordsmen who may care to challenge -him. Bismarck had to fight nearly -half-a-dozen duels before he could cross -swords with Koch again, but on this -second occasion he dealt the Sandist a -master-slash on the face and remained -victorious.</p> - -<p>This series of duels had some important -consequences. A satirical paper called -<cite>Der Floh</cite> (<cite>The Flea</cite>), which was published -at Hanover, inserted an article -against student fights, and pretty clearly -designated young Bismarck as a truculent -fellow. Bismarck went to Hanover, -called on the editor of the paper, and -holding up to his nose the cutting of the -offensive article, requested him to swallow -it. One version of the story says -that the editor's mouth was forced open -and that the article was thrust into it in -a pellet; another version states that a -scrimmage ensued and that the student, -after giving and receiving blows and -kicks, was hustled out of the office. But -it is certain that the affair reached the ears -of the Rector of Göttingen University, -who sent for Bismarck and rebuked him -in a paternal way for his pugnacity. -Bismarck did not accept the reproof. -To the Rector's astonishment he made an -indignant speech, expressing his detestation -of Frenchmen, French principles -and revolutionary Germans, whom he -called Frenchmen in disguise. He -prayed that the sword of Joshua might -be given him to exterminate all these. -“Well, my young friend, you are preparing -great trouble for yourself,” remarked -the Rector, with a shake of the -head; “your opinions are those of another -age.” “Good opinions re-flower -like the trees after winter,” was Bismarck's -answer.</p> - -<p>At this time, however, Bismarck's -principles were not yet well set. The -son of a Pomeranian squire, he had the -<i>Junker's</i> abhorrence of Radicals, and -from the study of J. J. Rousseau's -“Emile,” he had derived the idea that -all cities are nests of corruption. -Though he execrated Rousseau's name, -he was so far his disciple as to look upon -country life as the perfect life; in fact, -he was an idealist, and he was often -sadly at a loss for arguments with which -to refute the reasoning of political opponents. -This tormented him, for he did -not wish to be a man like that Colonel -in Hacklander's “Tale of the Regiment,” -who said of a philosopher: “I -felt the fellow was going to convince -me, so I kicked him down stairs.” -From Göttingen he went to the University -of Berlin, and there vexed his -soul in many disputations, without acquiring -the consciousness that he was -growing really strong in logic. At last -he heard in a Lutheran church a sermon -which left a lasting impression on his -mind. He has often spoken of it since -as “my Pentecost.”</p> - -<p>The preacher was treating of infidelity -in connection with Socialist aspirations, -and he observed that men could not -live without faith in some ideal. Those -men who reject the doctrine of immortality -and of a world after this, -delude themselves with visions of an -earthly paradise. The Socialist's dream -is nothing else; and his shibboleths of -equality, fraternity and co-operation, -are but a paraphrase of the Christian's -“love one another.” Love is not necessary -to the fulfilment of the Socialist's -schemes than it is to the realisation -of one's image of Heaven. A world in -which there shall be no poor—in which -each man shall receive according to his -needs and work to the full measure of -his capacities, having no individual advancement -to expect from his industry, -but content to see other men, less capable, -fed out of the surplus of his earnings—what -would this be but a paradise -purged of all human passions—envy, -jealousy, covetousness and sloth? Unless -there were universal love, how could -all the members of a Socialist community -be expected to work to their -utmost? And if every man did not -work his best, so that the weak and the -clumsy might live at the expense of the -strong and the clever, how could the -community exist?</p> - -<p>This was the substance of the sermon -which Bismarck heard, and those words -“the Socialist's Earthly Paradise” have -remained fixed in his memory ever since -as a terse demonstration as to the inanity -of Socialism. State Socialism is of -course another matter, and very early in -life Bismarck came to the conclusion -that the wise ruler must try to make -himself popular by humoring the fancies -of the people, whatever they may be, -and however they may vary. If he can -divert the people's fancies towards the -objects of his own preference, so much -the better, and it must be part of his -business to endeavor to do this. But if -he cannot lead, he must seem to lead -while letting himself be pushed onward. -“The people must be led without knowing -it,” said Napoleon in a letter which -he wrote to Fouché to decline Barrère's -offer of pamphlets extolling the Emperor's -policy. Bismarck has described -universal suffrage as “the government -of a house by its nursery;” but he -added: “You can do anything with -children if you play with them.”</p> - -<p>It has been one of the secrets of Bismarck's -strength that he has never let -himself be imposed upon by inflated talk -about the “majesty of the People.” -The Democracy has been in his eyes a -mere multitude of mediocrities. “<i lang="fr">Cent -imbéciles ne font pas un sage</i>,” said Voltaire, -and though La Rochefoucauld -inclines to the contrary opinion in some -of his well-known aphorisms,<a id="FNanchor_30_30" href="#Footnote_30_30" class="fnanchor">30</a> it is a -provable fact that the only successful -rulers are those who have had eyes enabling -them to analyse the component -elements of a crowd. As sportsmen -delight in tales of the chase, and soldiers in -anecdotes of war, so Bismarck has always -taken a peculiar pleasure in stories -showing how one man by presence of -mind has mastered an angry mob, or outwitted -it, or coaxed it into good humor. -A sure way to make him laugh is to tell -him such stories, and it must be added -that he likes them all the better when -they exhibit the <i lang="fr">bon enfant</i> side of the -popular character.</p> - -<p>During the siege of Paris, whilst he -was at Versailles, a pass was applied for -by a relation of M. Cuvillier Fleury, the -eminent critic and member of the French -Academy. The Chancellor at once -gave the pass, saying: “M. Fleury is an -admirable man. I know a capital story -about him.” The story was this: M. -Fleury, who had been tutor to the Duc -d'Aumale, was in 1848 Private Secretary -to the Duchess of Orleans. When -the revolution of February broke out, -a rabble invaded the Palais Royal, where -the Princess resided, and began smashing -works of art, pictures, statuettes, -and nicknacks. All the household was -seized with panic except M. Fleury, -who, throwing off his coat, smeared his -face and hands with coal, caught up a -poker, and rushed among the mob, -shouting: “Here, I'll show you where -the best pictures are.” So saying, he -plied his poker upon furniture of no -value, and, thus winning the confidence -of the roughs, was able to lead them out -of the royal apartments into the kitchen -regions, where they spent their patriotic -fury upon the contents of the larder and -cellar. The sequel of this story is very -droll, and Bismarck relates it with great -relish. A few days after he had saved -the Palais Royal, M. Fleury was recognised -in the streets as the Duchess of -Orleans's Secretary, and mobbed. He -was being somewhat roughly hustled -when a hulking water-carrier elbowed -his way through the throng and roared: -“Let that man be! He is one of the -right sort. He led us to the pillage of -the Palais Royal the other day!”</p> - -<p>Bismarck once told Lord Bloomfield -that he had the highest opinion of -Charles Mathews, the actor. It turned -out that this opinion was not based on -any particular admiration for Mathews's -professional talent, but on his coolness -during a theatrical riot which Bismarck -witnessed during a visit to London. -Mathews was manager of a theatre, and -for want of pay, part of his company -had struck work. It was impossible to -perform the piece advertised, so pit and -gallery grew clamorous. In the midst -of the hubbub, Mathews came before -the curtain and jovially announced that, -although he must disappoint the audience -of the comedy which they had expected, -he was ready to perform anything they -pleased, provided only that he could -satisfy the majority. A voice from the -gallery sang out: “'Box and Cox.'” -“Well, that is an excellent play,” said -Mathews gravely, “but before my -honorable friend puts a motion for its -performance, I think he should explain -to the audience why he prefers it to all -others.” This turned a general laugh -against the “mover,” who of course became -bashful and could explain nothing. -Mathews then made a chaffing -little speech on the comparative merits -of various plays, and at length withdrew, -saying that as he could discern -nothing like unanimity among the audience, -he thought it best that they should -all agree to meet him another day, but -that meanwhile those who liked to apply -for their money at the doors should have -it. It seems that a number of men had -come to the theatre on purpose to create -a disturbance, but Mathews's banter -put the whole audience into good humor, -and the house was emptied without any -riot.<a id="FNanchor_31_31" href="#Footnote_31_31" class="fnanchor">31</a></p> - -<p>Bismarck has another favorite story -about mobs. When the Grand Duke -Constantine of Russia went as Viceroy -to Poland in 1862, he was received in -the streets of Warsaw with cries of -“Long live the Constitution!” A -Prussian, Count Perponcher, who was -present, asked a vociferating Pole who -“Constitutiona” was? “I suppose it's -his wife,” answered the Pole. “Well, -but he has children,” said Perponcher, -“so you should cry: “Hurrah for -Constitutiona and the little Constitutions,”” -which the Pole at once did. -Hearing Bismarck tell this anecdote—not -for the first time probably—his son-in-law -Count Rantzau, once said: “You -can make a mob cry anything by paying -a few men among them a mark apiece to -start the shouting.” “<i lang="de">Nein</i>, but you -need not waste your marks,“ demurred -the Chancellor, ”<i lang="de">es gibt immer Esel -genug, die schreien unbezahlt</i>.” (There -are always asses to bray gratis).</p> - -<p>The knowledge of how men can be -swayed involves an accurate estimate of -the influence which oratory exercises -over them. Bismarck, as we have said, -is not eloquent, and it is one of his -maxims that a man of many words cannot -be a man of action. “The best -Parliamentary speeches”—he said, in -conversation with M. Pouyer Quertier -about M. Thiers—“are those which men -have delivered to criticise other men's -work, or to set forth what they themselves -were <em>going</em> to do, or to apologize -for what they have left undone.”</p> - -<p>Action speaks for itself. “When I -hear of ministers in parliamentary countries -making long speeches to defend -their policy, it always strikes me that -there has been very little policy; and I -am reminded of those big dishes of stew -which our frugal German housewives -serve up on Mondays with the remnants -of Sunday's dinner—lots of cabbage and -carrots, making a great show, with small -scraps of meat.”</p> - -<p>Action fascinates the masses as much -as speech,<a id="FNanchor_32_32" href="#Footnote_32_32" class="fnanchor">32</a> for it demands courage, -which is of all virtues the rarest.<a id="FNanchor_33_33" href="#Footnote_33_33" class="fnanchor">33</a> Pastor -Stocker, of anti-Semitic renown, relates -that Bismarck once asked him whether -there were any text in the Bible saying, -“All men are cowards?” “No, you are -thinking of the text: 'The Cretans are -all liars,'” said Stocker. “Liars—cowards, -it comes to much the same thing,” -answered Bismarck; “but it's not true -only of the Cretans;” and he then -asked Stocker whether the latter had -met many thoroughly brave men. The -Court pastor replied that there might -be several definitions of courage; but -Bismarck interrupted him with a boisterous -laugh: “Oh, yes, the moral -courage of letting one's face be smacked -rather than fight a duel; I have met -plenty of men who had that.”</p> - -<p>Bismarck's own courage is that of a -mastiff, and in early life it often got -him into scrapes. We have remarked -how some of these might have been -detrimental to his whole career. Whilst -he was doing his One Year Voluntariate -in the Prussian Light Infantry, he paid -a visit to Schleswig, which was then -under Danish rule. One day, wearing -his uniform, he was seated in a <i lang="de">Brauerei</i> -when he overheard two gentlemen -holding a political conversation and -expressing extreme Liberal sentiments. -With amazing impudence he walked up -to their table and requested that: “If -they must talk nonsense, they would -use an undertone.” The two Schleswigers -told the <i>Junker</i> to mind his own -business, whereupon Bismarck caught -up a beer-jug and dashed its contents -in their faces. This affair caused very -serious trouble. Bismarck was taken -into custody and ordered out of the -country. On joining his regiment he was -placed under arrest again, and there -was an interchange of diplomatic notes -about him. He only escaped severe -punishment through powerful intercession -being employed at Court on his -behalf.</p> - -<p>Some years later when Bismarck had -been appointed to the Legation at -Frankfort (a post which he owed to -the delight with which Frederick William -IV. had read his bluff speeches in -the Prussian Lower House), he was present -at a public ball, where a member of -the French Corps Législatif, M. Jouvois -de Clancy, was pointed out to him as -a noted fire-eater. This gentleman had -been a Republican, but had turned his -coat after the <i lang="fr">coup d'état</i>. He was a -big man with dandified airs, but evidently -not much accustomed to society, -for he had brought his hat—not a compressible -one—into the ball-room; and -in waltzing he held it in his left hand. -The sight of the big Frenchman careering -round the room with his hat extended -at arm's length was too much for -Bismarck's sense of fun; so, as M. -Jouvois revolved past him, he dropped -a copper coin into the hat. One may -imagine the scene. The Frenchman, -turning purple, stopped short in his -dancing, led back his partner to her -place, and then came with flashing eyes -to demand satisfaction. There would -have been assault and battery on the -spot if friends had not interposed; but -on the following day the Frenchman -and the Prussian met with pistols and -the former was wounded. Unfortunately -for Bismarck, M. Jouvois knew Louis -Schneider, the ex-comedian, who had -become Court Councillor to Frederick -William IV., and was that eccentric -monarch's favorite companion. Schneider -had but a moderate fondness for -Bismarck, and he represented his act of -<i lang="fr">gaminerie</i> in so unfavorable a light to -the King that his Majesty instructed -the Foreign Office to read the newly -appointed diplomatist a severe lecture.</p> - -<p>Bismarck has never liked Frenchmen. -His feelings towards them savor of contempt -in their expression, but there is -more of hatred than of genuine disdain -in them, and much of this hatred has -its source in religious fervor. Bismarck -is a believer. The sceptical levity of -most Frenchmen, the profanity and licentiousness -of their literature, their -want of reverence for all things, whether -of Divine or of human ordinance—all -this shocks the statesman, who still -reads his Bible with a simple faith, and -who has attentively noted the doom -which is threatened to nations who are -disobedient, During the Franco-German -War, Countess Bismarck, hearing -that her husband had lost the travelling-bag -in which he carried his Bible, sent -him another with this naïve letter: “As -I am afraid you may not be able to buy -a Bible in France, I send you two copies -of the Scriptures, and have marked the -passages in Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel -<em>which relate to France</em>—also the -verse in the Psalms which says that -'The unbeliever shall be rooted out.'”</p> - -<p>Carlyle saw affinities between the -character of Cromwell and that of Bismarck, -but the only resemblance between -the two men is physical. One may question -how far Cromwell was a believer: -he certainly had as little respect for sacred -words as he had for cathedrals and -kings, and he juggled with texts of -Scripture as it suited his purpose. Bismarck -has never canted. His acknowledgments -of Divine mercies have only -been expressed where national triumphs -were concerned—never where his own -personal enterprises had to be lauded. -On the other hand, he has evinced -strong religious scruples under circumstances -when few men would have credited -him with such. He has spent more -sleepless hours from thinking over the -deposition of George V. of Hanover -than Cromwell did from fretting over -Charles I.'s execution. He reconciled -that deposition with the dictates of his -reason, but not with those of his faith in -the inviolability of kings. When it had -been decided to annex Hanover, the -Crown lawyers were instructed to draw -up a report of legal justifications for this -measure; but when Bismarck had read -half through this document, he threw it -aside with irritation: “Better nothing -than that—it reminds me of Teste's -Memorandum on the confiscation of the -estates of the Orleans family.”<a id="FNanchor_34_34" href="#Footnote_34_34" class="fnanchor">34</a></p> - -<p>Again Bismarck, while making it the -chief occupation of his life to study -how the Plebs might be managed, has -never stooped to such immoral means -for this purpose as the French officials -of the Second Empire employed. He -was deeply interested in Napoleon III.'s -experiments with universal suffrage. -The whole system of plébiscites, official -candidatures, prefectoral newspapers, -and electoral districts, so arranged -that peasant votes should neutralise -those of Radical working-men, seemed -to him “very pretty,” as he once told a -disgusted Republican refugee. But the -encouragement given by De Morny, De -Persigny, and others to every kind of -immorality that could amuse the people—frivolous -newspapers, improper novels -and plays, gambling clubs, and outrageous -fashions in dress—this was a -very different affair. De Morny was -fond of quoting the anecdote about Alcibiades -having cut off the tail of his -dog to give the Athenians something to -talk about, and during Bismarck's short -stay in Paris as Ambassador in 1862, he -and the Prussian statesman had more -than one conversation about the art of -ruling. Bismarck had the frankness to -say that he looked upon the comedies of -Dumas the younger, and indeed on most -French plays of the lighter sort, as -grossly corrupting to the public morals. -“<i lang="la">Panem et circenses</i>,” smiled De Morny. -“<i lang="la">Panem et saturnalia</i>,” muttered Bismarck.</p> - -<p>Another point upon which De Morny -and Bismarck could not agree, was about -the qualities that are requisite in a -public servant. De Morny cared nothing -for character. The men whom he -recommended for prefectships or posts -in the diplomatic service were, for the -most part, adventurers—brilliant, witty, -<i lang="fr">diseurs de rien</i> and cajolers of the other -sex. “A French Ambassador,” he maintained, -“should always consider himself -accredited <i lang="fr">auprès des reines</i>.” Bismarck -loathes ladies' men: and he had the -poorest opinion of Napoleon III.'s -diplomatists. His own ideal of a State -functionary is the blameless man without -debts or entanglements—laborious, -but not pushing, well-educated but not -abounding in ideas, a man in all things -obedient. His sneering judgment on -plenipotentiaries like M. Benedetti and -the Duc de Gramont is well known. He -called them “dancing dogs without -collars.” They never seemed to have a -master, he complained, “but stood up -on their hind legs and performed their -antics without authority from man alive. -If they barked, you were sure to hear a -voice from Paris crying to them to be -quiet. If they fawned you might expect -to see them receive some sly kick, -warning them that they ought to be up -and biting.” Bismarck conceived some -liking and respect for Napoleon III., -whom he saw to be better than his -<i lang="fr">entourage</i>. Had the Emperor's health -remained good, the war of 1870 would -doubtless never have taken place; but so -early as 1862 Bismarck perceived that -Napoleon III.'s bodily ailments were -causing an indolence of mind that left -the Emperor at the mercy of intriguing -counsellors; and what he observed in -his subsequent visits to Paris in 1867 -and to Plombières in 1868, confirmed -these impressions. His ceaseless study -of France as the great enemy that would -have to be coped with soon, moreover -added to his deep and moody detestation -of that country. When the formal -declaration of war by France reached -Berlin in July 1870, Count Bismarck -was staying for a few days at Varzin. -The news was communicated to him by -a telegram which was put into his hands -just as he was returning from a drive. -He at once sprang into his carriage, to -go to the railway station, and on his -way through the village of Wussow, he -saw the parish minister standing at the -door of his manse. “I said nothing -to him,” ejaculated Bismarck, in relating -the story long afterwards to some -friends, “but I just made a sign as of -two sabre-cuts crosswise, and he quite -understood.”</p> - -<p>The pastor of Wussow understood the -sign of the cross in sword-cuts to mean -crusade, and as such the war against -France was viewed by all good Prussians. -Bismarck and the village clergyman -were at one in regarding the French -people as the Beast of the Apocalypse, -and Paris as Babylon. Such sentiments -are not incompatible with Christian -piety, for there must be militants in the -Church. But where Bismarck ceases to -be a Christian in the common acceptance -of that term, is in his exaggerated -contempt for almost all men as individuals.<a id="FNanchor_35_35" href="#Footnote_35_35" class="fnanchor">35</a></p> - -<p>His want of charity—we do not of -course mean in almsgiving, for in this -respect he is as generous as the Princess, -his wife, allows him to be—is the -most unamiable and disconcerting trait -in his nature. Disconcerting because -misanthrophy is an evidence of moral -short-sightedness, begetting timidity and -rendering a man incapable of forming -disciples to carry on his work. Without -trustfulness, a statesman can make no real -friends. It may be said that uncharitableness -like Bismarck's must be the -result of many disenchantments; but a -man who only keeps rooks and ravens -must not complain that all birds are -black. The men who were at different -times Bismarck's most zealous helpmates—Count -Harry Arnim, Herr Delbrück, -Count Stolberg and Count -Eulenborg—were all discarded as soon -as they gave the smallest sign, not of -mutiny, but of independence. Bismarck -would not accept advice or remonstrance -from them; he required on all occasions -that blind obedience which is not loyal -service, but servility. For the same -cause he would never employ Herr -Edward Lasker, whose great talents as -a financier and parliamentary debater -would have been of immense value to -the monarchy. He has rejected the -advances of Herr Bennigsen, the Hanoverian -founder of the <i lang="de">Nationalverein</i>, -who is now leader of the National -Liberals; and those of Dr. Rudolph -Gneist, who is one of the ablest politicians -in Germany, but who had the misfortune -to take the wrong side during -the <i lang="de">Conflikt-Zeit</i>. Opposition, as Bismarck -has often taken care to impress -upon his hearers, shall never be <i lang="de">regierungsfähig</i> -so long as he holds office. -He abominates the Parliamentary system -which brings to power men who have -begun life as demagogues agitating for -the abolition of this and that, and who, -afterwards, are obliged to make shameless -recantations, or to quibble away -their words. The contrary system of -selecting for his assistants only men who -have never sown political wild oats is, -however, compelling Bismarck to rely -now on such henchmen as Herr Von -Puttkamer and Herr Hofmann. The -former is the Chancellor's brother-in-law, -an excellent subordinate, supple as -a glove, but with no originality of mind -or firmness that could enable him to remain -Home Minister if he were not -propped up in this post. Herr Hofmann -is also a mere painstaking bureaucrat, -who, if he did not hear the voice -of command, would be quite inapt to -think for himself. Of late Prince Bismarck -is said to have been training his -son, Count Herbert to act as his Secretary -and to take his place by-and-by. -Count Herbert is a clever man, but -dynasties of <i lang="fr">maires du palais</i> have never -succeeded in any country, and it is -strange Bismarck should have forgotten -that the Hohenzollern dynasty has owed -its rapid rise to a respect for that principle -which he is now ignoring, namely -the selection of the best men without -favoritism. If independence of mind -and character have been eyed with suspicion -by the Prussian kings, as they -now are by the Chancellor, Germany -would have had no Bismarck.</p> - -<p>The popular idea of a genial, -soldierly, blunt-spoken Bismarck is a -wrong one. Bismarck can be jovial -among friends and good-humoredly -affable with strangers; but genial he is -not. There is a sarcastic tone in his -voice which grates on the ears of all -who are brought in contact with him for -the first time, and his unconcealed mistrust -for the rectitude of all public men, -of no matter what country, who do not -happen to be in his good graces at the -time, is too often offensive. It must be -remembered that when Bismarck has -quarrelled with public men, it has generally -been because, having changed an -opinion himself, he has been unable to -persuade men to do the same at a moment's -notice. Turn by turn, Free-trader -and Protectionist, inclining one -day to the Russian, another to the -Austrian alliance, coquetting at one time -with England, then with Italy, and even -with France, he has ever been actuated -by the sole desire to use every passing -wind which might push the interest of -his Government. He has declined to -formulate any policy in details, because -against such a policy parties might -coalesce, whereas by veering and tacking -often, he throws disunion among his opponents. -He appropriates what is best -in the new designs of this or that party, -takes for his Sovereign and himself the -credit of carrying them into execution, -and then leaves the original promoters -with a sense that power has gone out of -them—that they have been played with, -but that they have nothing to complain -of.</p> - -<p>This policy of variations, however, -has exposed Bismarck to some cutting -rebukes from loyal Prussians whose -consciences were not acrobatic. The -trouble with Count Harry Arnim began -when this diplomatist—“<i lang="de">Der Affe</i>,” as -he was nicknamed by his familiars—said -to Countess Von Redern, at one of the -Empress Augusta's private parties, that -he had hitherto been trying to walk on -his feet in Paris, but that from “his -latest instructions he gathered that he -was expected until further notice to walk -on his hands.” The saying was reported -to Bismarck and made “his three -hairs bristle.” “The 'Ape' has only -been employed, because we thought him -quadrumanous,“ he exclaimed, and from -that moment there was war between the -two men.</p> - -<p>Another time Bismarck had to bear a -snub from a young nobleman of the -House of Hatzfelt. This gentleman, -being left in charge of a Legation during -the absence of the Minister, sent home -a despatch embodying views favorable -to the policy which the Chancellor had, -until then, been pursuing towards the -country where the attaché was residing. -But it so chanced that the Chief of the -Legation had been summoned to Berlin -on purpose to receive instructions for a -change of policy; so that when the -attaché's despatch arrived, it gave no -pleasure in Wilhelmstrasse, and the -Chancellor spoke testily of its writer as -a ”<i lang="de">Schafsköpf</i>.” Hearing this, the -attaché resigned. He was a young man -of high spirit, who had many friends at -Court, and it was pointed out to the -Chancellor by an august peacemaker, -that the young fellow had not been very -well-treated. Somewhat grudgingly—for -he does not like to make amends—the -Chancellor was induced to send his -Secretary to the ex-attaché offering to -reinstate him. But the recipient of this -dubious favor drew himself up stiffly and -said: “Germany has not fallen to so -low a point that she needs to be served -by <i lang="de">Schafsköpf</i>; and for the rest, you -may tell the Chancellor that I have not -been trained to turn somersaults.”<a id="FNanchor_36_36" href="#Footnote_36_36" class="fnanchor">36</a></p> - -<p>It has been mentioned that Bismarck -has had to contend with many a boudoir -cabal. The Empress Augusta's long -antipathy to him is no secret, and the -Chancellor has never had to congratulate -himself much on the friendliness of the -Crown Prince's and Princess's circle. -The ill-will of royal ladies enlists that -of many other persons influential in -society; but it stands to Bismarck's -honor that he has never used newspapers -to combat these drawing-room foes. -The revelations made to the public some -years since by an ex-member of the -“Reptile's Bureau” were no doubt in -the main true, and they showed that -the Chancellor had raised the art of -“nobbling” the Press to a high pitch of -perfection. Not only had he, all over -Germany, newspapers supported in part -out of the Secret Service Fund and inspired -wholly by the Press Bureau, but -he has been accused of employing -hirelings on the staffs of newspapers reputed -as independent, and through these -he was in a position to procure the insertion -of articles in foreign journals, -these effusions being afterwards reprinted -in German papers as genuine -expressions of foreign opinion.</p> - -<p>All this constituted a very powerful -organization, which the Chancellor -might have used with telling effect in -fighting society caballers. But while -he has not scrupled to direct the -heaviest artillery of his newspapers and -not unfrequently torpedo attacks against -open political opponents, he would -never let his difficulties with “<i lang="de">die -Wespen</i>” as he called society aggressors, -be made the subjects of Press comments. -Newspapers, guilty of assailing -members of the Imperial family or of -the Court household, have been unsparingly -prosecuted by his orders. -“<i lang="de">Er is kein Journaliste!</i>” exclaimed a -too zealous partisan-writer, who had -gone to the Chancellerie with a proposal -for creating in Berlin a newspaper like -the Paris <cite>Figaro</cite>, “<i lang="de">er könne sich nicht -auf die feine Malice zu verstehen</i>.” This -may be rendered as, “He won't throw -mud;” and it is no small compliment -to the integrity of a statesman, whom -his enemies are wont to describe as -more astute than Machiavelli, and more -unscrupulous than Richelieu.<a id="FNanchor_37_37" href="#Footnote_37_37" class="fnanchor">37</a></p> - -<p>In the autumn of the present year the -Pope gave a commission to the painter -Lenbach to paint a portrait of Prince -Bismarck. The Chancellor agreed to -sit; the artist went several times to -Varzin, and people have been asking -ever since what is the meaning of this -strange fancy of Leo XIII.'s to have a -portrait of the arch-enemy of Rome, the -formidable champion of the Kulturkampf. -A French journalist has suggested -that there is at the Vatican an -artistic Index Expurgatorius—a <i lang="fr">Galerie -des Réprouvés</i>—and that Bismarck's -portrait is to hang there in the place -of honor, between that of Dositheus the -Samaritan, and Isaac Laquedem the -Wandering Jew.</p> - -<p>It is more likely that the Pope aspires -to some political <i lang="fr">rapprochement</i> with -Germany, and if he have such a hope it -must have come to him from the knowledge -that the Chancellor would not object -to a reconciliation. But if Bismarck -consents to make peace with the -Vatican, and to find some official post -for Herr Windhorst, it would not be that -any of his own private Lutheran prejudices -against Rome have vanished. -He is a doughty Protestant in whose -religion there is no variableness, but he -may veer on the Kulturkampf as he did -on that of free trade, simply because, -having failed, after doing his best, to -crush the Catholics, he will see no use in -recommencing the struggle. And whatever -is useless seems to Bismarck a -thing which should not be attempted, -indeed, many of his great triumphs -hitherto have been won by shaking -hands with yesterday's enemy, and saying -“Let us two stand together.” Before -long the world may see Prince Bismarck -recognise the Roman Catholic -Church as one of the greatest living -forces of Continental Conservatism, and -enlist its services in the work of “dishing” -both Liberals and Socialists. It -is significant that in one of his few -autumn speeches, Bismarck was heard -quoting Joseph De Maistre's dictum -about the Soldier and the Priest being -the sentries of civilisation.—<cite>Temple -Bar.</cite></p> - - - - - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="A_FEW_NOTES_ON_PERSIAN_ART">A FEW NOTES ON PERSIAN ART.</h2> - - -<p>The limner's art in Persia has few patrons, -and the professional draughtsman -of the present day in that country must -needs be an enthusiast, and an art-lover -for art's sake, as his remuneration is so -small as to be a mere pittance; and -the man who can live by his brush must -be clever indeed. The Persians are an -eminently practical people, and buy -nothing unless it be of actual utility; -hence the artist has generally to sink to -the mere decorator; and as all, even the -very rich, expect a great deal for a little -money, the work must be scamped in -order to produce a great effect for a -paltry reward. The artists, moreover, -are all self-taught, or nearly so, pupilage -merely consisting of the drudgery of -preparing the canvas, panel, or other -material for the master, mixing the -colors, filling in backgrounds, varnishing, -&c. There are no schools of art, -no lectures, no museums of old or contemporary -masters, no canons of taste, -no drawing from nature or the model, no -graduated studies, or system of any -kind. There is, however, a certain -custom of adhering to tradition and the -conventional; and most of the art workmen -of Iran, save the select few, are -mere reproducers of the ideas of their -predecessors.</p> - -<p>The system of perspective is erroneous; -but neither example nor argument -can alter the views of a Persian artist -on this subject. Leaving aside the -wonderful blending of colors in native -carpets, tapestries, and embroideries, -all of which improve by the toning influence -of age, the modern Persian -colorist is remarkable for his skill in the -constant use of numerous gaudy and incongruous -colors, yet making one -harmonious and effective whole, which -surprises us by its daring, but compels -our reluctant admiration.</p> - -<p>Persian pictorial art is original, and -it is cheap; the wages of a clever artist -are about one shilling and sixpence a -day. In fact, he is a mere day-laborer, -and his terms are, so many days' pay -for a certain picture. In this pernicious -system of time-work lies the cause of -the scamping of many really ingenious -pieces of work.</p> - -<p>As a copyist the Persian is unrivalled; -he has a more than Chinese accuracy -of reproduction; every copy is -a fac-simile of its original, the detail -being scamped, or the reverse, according -to the scale of payment. In unoriginal -work, such as the multiplication of some -popular design, a man will pass a lifetime, -because he finds it pay better to -do this than to originate. This kind of -unoriginal decoration is most frequent -in the painted mirror cases and book-covers, -the designs of which are ancient; -and the painter merely reproduces the -successful and popular work of some old -and forgotten master.</p> - -<p>But where the Persian artist shines is -in his readiness to undertake any style or -subject; geometrical patterns—and they -are very clever in originating these; -scroll-work scenes from the poets; likenesses, -miniatures, paintings of flowers -or birds; in any media, on any substance, -oils, water, or enamel, and -painting on porcelain; all are produced -with rapidity, wonderful spirit, and -striking originality. In landscape, the -Persian is very weak; and his attempts -at presenting the nude, of which he is -particularly fond, are mostly beneath -contempt. A street scene will be painted -in oils and varnished to order “in a -week” on a canvas a yard square, the -details of the painting desired being furnished -in conversation. While the patron -is speaking, the artist rapidly makes an -outline sketch in white paint; and any -suggested alterations are made in a few -seconds by the facile hand of the <i lang="ur">ustad -nakosh</i> (master-painter), a term used to -distinguish the artist from the mere -portrait-painter or <i lang="ur">akkas</i>, a branch of -the profession much despised by the -artists, a body of men who consider -their art a mechanical one, and their -guild no more distinguished than those -of other handicraftsmen.</p> - -<p>A Persian artist will always prefer to -reproduce rather than originate, because, -as a copy will sell for the same -price as an original, by multiplication -more money can be earned in a certain -time, than by the exercise of originality. -Rarely, among the better class of artists, -is anything actually out of drawing; -the perspective is of course faulty, -and resembles that of early specimens of -Byzantine art. Such monstrosities as -the making the principal personages -giants, and the subsidiaries dwarfs, are -common; while the beauties are represented -as much bejewelled; but this is -done to please the buyer's taste, and the -artist knows its absurdity. There is -often considerable weakness as to the -rendering of the extremities; but as the -Persian artist never draws, save in portraiture, -from the life, this is not to be -wondered at.</p> - -<p>The writer has before him a fair instance -of the native artist's rendering of -the scene at the administration of the -bastinado. This picture is an original -painting in oils, twenty-four inches by -sixteen on <i lang="fr">papier-mâché</i>. The details -were given to the artist by the writer in -conversation, sketched by him in white -paint on the <i lang="fr">papier mâché</i> during the -giving of the order, in the course of half -an hour; and the finished picture was -completed, varnished, and delivered in a -week. The price paid for this original -work in oils in 1880 was seven shillings -and sixpence. The costumes are quite -accurate in the minutest detail; the -many and staring colors employed are -such as are in actual use; while the -general <i lang="fr">mise en scène</i> is very correct.</p> - -<p>Many similar oil-paintings were executed -for the writer by Persian artists, -giving graphic renderings of the manners -and customs of this little-known country. -They were always equally spirited, and -minutely correct as to costume and -detail, at the same low price; a small -present for an extraordinarily successful -performance gladdening the heart of the -artist beyond his expectations.</p> - -<p>As to original work by Persian artists -in water-color, remuneration is the same—so -much per diem. A series of water-colors -giving minute details of Persian -life were wished; and a clever artist -was found as anxious to proceed as the -writer was to obtain the sketches. The -commission was given, and the subjects -desired carefully indicated to the artist, -who, by a rapid outline sketch in pencil, -showed his intelligence and grasp of the -subject. The writer, delighted at the -thought of securing a correct and permanent -record of the manners and customs -of a little-known people, congratulated -himself. But, alas! he counted -his chickens before hatching; for the -artist, on coming with his next water-color, -demanded, and received, a double -wage. A similar result followed the -finishing of each drawing; and though -the first only cost three shillings, and -the second six, the writer was reluctantly -compelled to stop his commissions, after -paying four times the price of the first -for his third water-color, on the artist -demanding twenty-four shillings for a -fourth—not that the work was more, but -as he found himself appreciated, the wily -painter kept to arithmetical progression -as his scale of charge; a very simple -principle, which all artists must devoutly -wish they could insist on.</p> - -<p>For a reduced copy of a rather celebrated -painting, of which the figures -were life-size, of what might be called, -comparatively speaking, a Persian old -master—for this reduction, in oils, -fourteen inches by eight, and fairly well -done, the charge was a sovereign. The -piece was painted on a panel. The -subject is a royal banqueting scene in -Ispahan—the date a century and a half -ago. The dresses are those of the time—the -ancient court costume of Persia. -The king in a brocaded robe is represented -seated on a carpet at the -head of a room, his drinking-cup in his -hand; while his courtiers are squatted -in two rows at the sides of the room, -and are also carousing. Minstrels and -singers occupy the foreground of the -picture; and a row of handsome dancing-girls -form the central group. All the -figures are portraits of historical personages; -and, in the copy, the likenesses -are faithfully retained.</p> - -<p>The palaces of Ispahan are decorated -with large oil paintings by the most -eminent Persian artists of their day. All -are life-size, and none are devoid of -merit. Some are very clever, particularly -the likenesses of Futteh Ali Shah -and his sons, several of whom were strikingly -like their father. As Futteh Ali -Shah had an acknowledged family of -seventy-two, this latter fact is curious. -These paintings are without frames, -spaces having been made in the walls to -receive them. The Virgin Mary is frequently -represented in these mural -paintings; also a Mr. Strachey, a young -diplomate who accompanied the English -mission to Persia in the reign of our -Queen Elizabeth, is still admired as a -type of adolescent beauty. He is represented -with auburn hair in the correct -costume of the period; and copies of -his portrait are still often painted on -the pen-cases of amateurs. These pen-cases, -or <i>kalamdans</i>, are the principal -occupation of the miniature-painter. -As one-fourth of the male population of -Persia can write, and as each man has -one or more pen-cases, the artist finds a -constant market for his wares in their -adornment. The pen-case is a box of -<i lang="fr">papier-mâché</i> eight inches long, an inch -and a half broad, and the same deep. -Some of them, painted by artists of renown, -are of great value, forty pounds -being a common price to pay for such a -work of art by a rich amateur. Several -fine specimens may be seen in the Persian -Collection at the South Kensington -Museum. It is possible to spend a -year's hard work on the miniatures -painted on a pen-case. These are very -minute and beautiful. The writer possesses -a pen-case, painted during the -lifetime of Futteh Ali Shah, a king of -Persia who reigned long and well. All -the faces—none more than a quarter of -an inch in diameter—are likenesses; -and the long black beard of the king -reaching to his waist, is not exaggerated, -for such beards are common in Persia.</p> - -<p>Bookbinding in Persia is an art, and -not a trade; and here the flower and -bird painter finds his employment. -Bright bindings of boards with a leather -back are decorated by the artist, principally -with presentments of birds and -flowers, both being a strange mixture of -nature and imagination; for if a Persian -artist in this branch thinks that he can -improve on nature in the matter of -color, he attempts it. The most startling -productions are the result; his -nightingales being birds of gorgeous -plumage, and the colors of some of his -flowers saying much for his imagination. -This method of “painting the lily” is -common in Persia; for the narcissus—bouquets -of which form the constant ornament -in spring of even the poorest -homes—is usually “improved” by rings -of colored paper, silk, or velvet being -introduced over the inner ring of the -petals. Startling floral novelties are the -result; and the European seeing them -for the first time, is invariably deceived, -and cheated into admiration of what -turns out afterwards to be a transparent -trick. Of course, this system of binding -each book in an original cover of its -own, among a nation so literary as the -Persians, gives a continuous and healthy -impetus to the art of the flower-painter.</p> - -<p>Enamelling in Persia is a dying art. -The best enamels are done on gold, and -often surrounded by a ring or frame of -transparent enamel, grass-green in color. -This green enamel, or rather transparent -paste, is supposed to be peculiar to the -Persian artist. At times, the gold is -hammered into depressions, which are -filled with designs in enamel on a white -paste, the spaces between the depressions -being burnished gold. Large -<em>plaques</em> are frequently enamelled on gold -for the rich; and often the golden -water-pipes are decorated with enamels, -either alone, or in combination with incrusted -gems.</p> - -<p>Yet another field remains to the Persian -artist—that of engraving on gold, -silver, brass, copper, and iron. Here -the work is usually artistically good, and -always original, no two pieces being -alike.</p> - -<p>Something must be said about the -artist and his studio. Abject poverty is -the almost universal lot of the Persian -artist. He is, however, an educated -man, and generally well-read. His -marvellous memory helps him to retain -the traditional attributes of certain well-known -figures: the black-bearded Rustum -(the Persian Hercules), and his opponent -the Deev Suffid or White Demon; -Leila and Mujnūn, the latter of -whom retired to the wilderness for love -of the beautiful Leila; and in a painfully -attenuated state, all his ribs being very -apparent, is always represented as conversing -with the wild beasts, who sit -around him in various attitudes of respectful -attention. Dr. Tanner could -never hope to reach the stage of interesting -emaciation to which the Persian artists -represent Mujnūn to have attained. -Another popular subject is that of Solomon -in all his glory.</p> - -<p>These legends are portrayed with -varying art but unquestionable spirit, -and often much humor; while the -poetical legends of the mythical history -of ancient Persia, full of strange imagery, -find apt illustrators in the Persian -artist. The palmy days of book-illustration -have departed; the cheap -reprints of Bombay have taken away the -<i lang="fr">raison d'être</i> of the caligraphist and -book-illustrators, and the few really -great artists who remain are employed -by the present Shah in illustrating his -great copy of the <cite>Arabian Nights</cite> by -miniatures which emulate the beauty and -detail of the best specimens of ancient -monkish art, or in making bad copies of -European lithographs to “adorn” the -walls of the royal palaces.</p> - -<p>As for the painter's studio, it is -usually a bare but light apartment, open -to the winds, in a corner of which, on a -scrap of matting, the artist kneels, sitting -on his heels. (It tires an oriental to sit -in a chair.) A tiny table a foot high -holds all his materials; his paints are -mixed on a tile; and his palette is -usually a bit of broken crockery. His -brushes he makes himself. Water-pipe -in mouth—a luxury that even an artist -can afford, in a country where tobacco -is fourpence a pound—his work held -on his knee in his left hand, without a -mahl-stick or the assistance of a color-man, -the artist squats contentedly at his -work. He is ambitious, proud of his -powers, and loves his art for art's sake. -Generally, he does two classes of work—the -one the traditional copies of the -popular scenes before described, or the -painting on pen cases—by this he lives; -the other purely ideal, in which he -deals with art from a higher point of -view, and practises the particular branch -which he affects.</p> - -<p>As a painter of likenesses, the Persian -seldom succeeds in flattering. The -likeness is assuredly obtained; but the -sitter is usually “guyed,” and a caricature -is generally the result. This is -not the case in the portraits of females, -and in the ideal heads of women and -children. The large dreamy eye and -long lashes, the full red lips, and naturally -high color, the jetty or dark auburn -locks (a color caused by the use of -henna, a dye) of the Persian women in -their natural luxuriance, lend themselves -to the successful production of the -peculiarly felicitous representation of -female beauty in which the Persian artist -delights. Accuracy in costume is highly -prized, and the minutiæ of dress are indicated -with much aptness, the varied -pattern of a shawl or scarf being rendered -with almost Chinese detail. Beauty -of the brunette type is the special choice -of the artist and amateur, and “salt”—as -a high-colored complexion is termed—is -much admired.</p> - -<p>Like the ancient Byzantine artist, the -Persian makes a free use of gold and -silver in his work. When wishing to -represent the precious metals, he first -gilds or silvers the desired portion of the -canvas or panel, and then with a fine -brush puts in shadows, etc. In this way -a strangely magnificent effect is produced. -The presentments of mailed -warriors are done in this way; and the -jewelled chairs, thrones, and goblets in -which the oriental mind delights. Gilt -backgrounds, too, are not uncommon, -and their effect is far from displeasing.</p> - -<p>The painting of portraits of Mohammed, -Ali, Houssein, and Hassan—the -last three, relatives of the Prophet, -and the principal martyred saints in the -Persian calendar, is almost a trade in -itself, though the representation of the -human form is contrary to the Mohammedan -religion, and the saints are generally -represented as veiled and faceless -figures. Yet in these particular cases, -custom has overridden religious law, and -the <i>Schamayūl</i> (or portrait of Ali) is -common. He is represented as a portly -personage of swarthy hue; his dark and -scanty beard, which is typical of the -family of Mohammed, crisply curled; -his hand is grasping his sword; and he -is usually depicted as wearing a green -robe and turban (the holy color of the -<i>Seyyuds</i> or descendants of the Prophet). -A nimbus surrounds his head; and he -is seated on an antelope's skin, for the -Persians say that skins were used in -Arabia before the luxury of carpets was -known there.</p> - -<p>Humble as is the lot of the Persian -artist, he expects to be treated by the -educated with consideration, and would -be terribly hurt at any want of civility. -One well-known man, Agha Abdullah of -Shiraz, generally insisted on regaling -the writer with coffee, which he prepared -himself when his studio was visited. -To have declined this would have been -to give mortal offence. On one of these -visits, his little brasier of charcoal was -nearly extinguished, and the host had -recourse to a curious kind of fire-igniter, -reviver, or rather steam-blast, that as -yet is probably undescribed in books. -It was of hammered copper, and had a -date on it that made it three hundred -years old. It was fairly well modelled; -and this curious domestic implement was -in the similitude of a small duck preening -its breast; consequently, the open -beak, having a spout similar to that of a -tea-kettle, was directed downwards. The -Persian poured an ounce or so of water -into the copper bird, and placed it on -the expiring embers. Certainly the result -was surprising. In a few minutes the -small quantity of water boiled fiercely; -a jet of steam was emitted from the open -bill, and very shortly the charcoal was -burning brightly. The water having all -boiled away, the Persian triumphantly -removed this scientific bellows with his -tongs, and prepared coffee.</p> - -<p>No mention has been made of the -curious bazaar pictures, sold for a few -pence. These cost little, but are very -clever, and give free scope for originality, -which is the great characteristic of -the Persian artist. They consist of -studies of town-life, ideal pictures of -dancing-girls, and such-like. All are -bold, ingenious, and original. But -bazaar pictures would take a chapter to -themselves, and occupy more space than -can be spared.—<cite>Chambers's Journal.</cite></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="HOW_INSECTS_BREATHE">HOW INSECTS BREATHE.</h2> - -<p class="aut">BY THEODORE WOOD.</p> - - - -<p>Perhaps in the entire range of insect -anatomy there is no point more truly -marvellous than the manner in which the -respiratory system is modified, in order -to suit it to the peculiar requirements of -its owners.</p> - -<p>In many ways the structure of the insects -is wonderful enough. They are -gifted with muscles of extraordinary -strength, and are yet destitute of bones -to which those muscles can be attached; -they possess a circulatory system, and -are yet without a heart; they perform -acts involving the exercise of certain -mental qualities, and are yet without a -brain. But, more remarkable still, they -breathe atmospheric air without the aid -of lungs.</p> - -<p>And this for a very good reason. It -can be neither too often nor too strongly -insisted upon that, throughout animated -nature, Structure is in all cases subservient -to Habit. If in any animal we find -some singular development in bodily -form, we may be quite sure that there is -a peculiarity in the life-history which -renders such development of particular -service, and so may often gain very complete -information with regard to the -habits by a mere glance at external characteristics. -If, for example, the general -shape is cylindrical, the toes webbed, -and the hair set closely against the body, -we may safely conclude that the animal -is one intended for a life in the water. -If the form is conical, the limbs short, -and the claws large and strong, that it is -one which burrows in the earth. If the -jaws are large and massive, the teeth -long and sharply pointed, and the muscular -power is concentrated principally -into the fore-parts of the body, that it is -a beast of prey. And so on with minor -details.</p> - -<p>And this rule holds equally good in -the case of the insects, which are devoid -of lungs for the very sufficient reason -that those organs are necessarily weighty, -and consequently unsuitable to the requirements -of beings which are in great -measure creatures of air. In all animals -intended for a more or less aerial existence -every particle of superfluous weight -must be dispensed with, in order that -the strain upon the muscles of flight may -be reduced to the least possible degree. -Take the bats, and see how the skeleton -has been attenuated until it scarcely -seems capable of affording the necessary -rigidity to the frame. Take the birds, -and see how a large portion of the body -is occupied by supplementary air-cells, -which permeate the very bones themselves, -and thus minimize the weight -without detracting from the strength. -And so also with the insects, but in a -different manner.</p> - -<p>For in them the very lungs themselves -are taken away, and replaced by a respiratory -system of great simplicity, and -yet of wonderful intricacy, which penetrates -to every part of the structure, -and simultaneously aerates the whole of -the blood contained in the body. In -other words, an insect is one large -Lung.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>If we take any moderately large insect, -say a wasp or a hornet, we can see, even -with the naked eye, that a series of -small spot-like marks runs along either -side of the body. These apparent spots, -which are generally eighteen or twenty -in number, are in fact the apertures -through which air is admitted into the -system, and are generally formed in such -a manner that no extraneous matter can -by any possibility find entrance. Sometimes -they are furnished with a pair of -horny lips, which can be opened and -closed at the will of the insect; in other -cases they are densely fringed with stiff, -interlacing bristles, forming a filter, -which allows air, and air alone, to pass. -But the apparatus, of whatever character -it may be, is always so wonderfully -perfect in its action that it has been -found impossible to inject the body of a -dead insect with even so subtle a medium -as spirits of wine, although the subject -was first immersed in the fluid, and -then placed beneath the receiver of an -air-pump.</p> - -<p>The apertures in question, which are -technically known as “spiracles,” communicate -with two large breathing-tubes, -or “tracheæ,” which extend through the -entire length of the body. From these -main tubes are given off innumerable -branches, which run in all directions, -and continually divide and subdivide -until a wonderfully intricate network is -formed, pervading every part of the -structure, and penetrating even to the -antennæ and claws.</p> - -<p>Physiologists tell us that if in the human -frame the nerves, the muscles, and -the veins and arteries could be separated -from one another, while retaining their -own relative positions, each would be -found to possess the perfect human form. -In other words, there would be the nerve-man, -the muscle-man, and the blood-vessel-man, -as well as the bone-man -which supplies the framework of the -whole. In the same way we may speak -of the tracheal, or breathing-tube insect; -for the two main tubes and the endless -ramifications of their branches, if they -could be detached from the surrounding -tissues while themselves suffering no displacement, -would exhibit to us the form -of the insect from which they were taken, -and that so exactly that in many cases -we should almost be able to recognize -the species.</p> - -<p>In the smaller branches of these air-vessels -considerable variety is to be -found. Some retain their tubular character -to their very termination. Others -assume a curious beaded form, dilating -at short intervals into small chambers; -while yet others abruptly resolve themselves -into sac-like reservoirs, in which -a comparatively large quantity of air is -stored up. From the larger vessels are -thrown off vast numbers of exceedingly -delicate filaments, so small that a very -powerful microscope is necessary in -order to detect them, which float loosely -in the blood, and furnish it with the -constant supply of oxygen necessary for -its purification.</p> - -<p>Now, we may well ask ourselves how -it is that these tubes, which are of almost -inconceivable delicacy, should remain -open during the various movements of -which the flexible body is capable. Why -is it, for instance, that the air-supply of -the lower leg is not cut off when the -limb is bent at the knee-joint? or from -the head, when that important part of -the frame is tucked away beneath the -body? How does the Earwig contrive to -breathe while folding its wings by the aid -of its tail-forceps? or many of the Cocktail-beetles -when curled up in their peculiar -attitude of repose?</p> - -<p>The answer to these questions is simple -enough, and may be discovered by a -glance at one of the most familiar of our -own inventions—the flexible gas-tube. -This preserves its tubular form no matter -to what degree it may be bent or twisted, -for coiled closely within it is a spiral wire, -which obliges the interior of the pipe -to retain its diameter almost unaltered -alike when straight or curved. And as -with this, so with the tracheæ of the -insect, whose walls are formed of a -double layer, the one lying inside the -other, while between the two, and surrounding -the inner, is coiled a fine but -very strong elastic thread, whose convolutions -allow the vessel to be bent in -any required direction without losing its -cylindrical form. By the exercise of a -little care the anatomist can often unwind -an inch or two of this spiral thread -from a single branch of the tracheæ of -a tolerably large insect, so closely is it -coiled, and so elastic its character.</p> - -<p>It will thus be seen that each expansion -of the respiratory muscles causes -the air to rush to every part of the body, -the entire bulk of the blood being consequently -aerated at each respiration. -This fact is a most important one, for, as -it is not necessary that the blood should -be brought to a definite centre, as in the -higher animals, before it can be re-vivified, -and then despatched through another -series of vessels upon its errand -of invigorating the frame, the necessity -for a circulatory system is almost wholly -at an end, and a large amount of weight -consequently dispensed with. Insects -have neither veins nor arteries, one principal -vessel running along the back, and -the blood passing slowly through this, -and flowing between the various organs -of the body until it again enters it at the -opposite extremity to that from which it -emerged.</p> - -<p>Nor is this all. With ourselves, as -with the higher animals in general, nearly -one-half of the blood, the venous, is -always effete and useless, requiring to -pass through the lungs before it can -again be rendered fit for service. When -this is vivified and pumped back by the -heart into the system, that which was -before arterial becomes venous in its -turn; and so on. But not in the case -of the insects. The whole bulk of their -blood is arterial, if we may use the expression -in speaking of animals which -do not possess a vascular system. In -other words, being incessantly vivified -throughout the body, owing to the comprehensive -character of the respiratory -apparatus, no portion of it becomes at -any time effete from the exhaustion of -the contained oxygen. Blood so thoroughly -and continually aerated, therefore, -can practically perform double -work, and need be far less in volume -than in beings whose circulation is conducted -upon different principles. The -tracheal structure, consequently, while -itself detracting from rather than adding -to the substance of the body, permits -of the abolition, not only of lungs, -but also of veins and arteries and of a -considerable proportion of the blood, -so that the weight of the insect is reduced -to the least possible degree.</p> - -<p>There is yet another point to be considered, -and that a very curious and at -present unexplained one. Upon careful -investigation we find that the tracheæ -extend beyond the limits of the circulation, -showing that they must serve -some secondary purpose in addition to -that generally attributed to them. For -nature provides nothing in vain, and -would not without good and sufficient -reason have carried the breathing-tubes -farther than necessary for their primary -object of regenerating the blood. As to -what this purpose may be, however, we -have no certain knowledge, and can only -conjecture that it is in some way connected -with the olfactory system. It is -well known that the sense of scent is -in many insects very highly developed, -enabling them to ascertain the position -of their food while yet at a considerable -distance. Burying-beetles and blowflies, -for instance, will detect the faintest -odor of putrid carrion, and will -wing their way without hesitation to the -spot whence it proceeds. Ivy-blossom, -again, will attract almost every butterfly -and moth in the neighborhood, and -this clearly by reason of its peculiar -fragrance.</p> - -<p>It may be, therefore, that the perfection -of the organs of scent in insects -is due to the fact that they are distributed -throughout the body, instead of -being localized as is the case with animals -higher in the scale. That they -must be connected with the respiratory -apparatus would seem, judging by analogy, -to be indisputable, for, so far as -we know, an odor cannot be appreciated -unless the air containing it be allowed -to pass more or less rapidly over -the olfactory nerves. And in no other -part of an insect's structure could this -requisite so well be observed as in the -tracheæ themselves, through which a -stream of air is continually passing, and -which penetrate to the remotest parts of -the body.</p> - -<p>With so wonderful a respiratory system, -it naturally follows that an insect -must be particularly susceptible to the -effects of any poisonous vapor, which, -being immediately carried to all parts of -the body, must speedily be attended -by fatal results. And this is the case -in a very marked degree. A moth or -beetle, which will live for hours, and -even days, after receiving an injury -which would cause instant death to a -more highly organized being, will yet -succumb in a few seconds to the fumes -of ether or chloroform, owing to the -fact that the deadly influence is simultaneously -exerted upon all the nerve-centres -of the body, instead of being -confined to one or two alone.</p> - -<p>So much for the respiratory system -of insects as a group. We have seen -how air is admitted into the body, how -the entire bulk of the blood is continuously -aerated, and how every particle -of needless weight has carefully been -dispensed with. There are many species, -however, whose mode of life renders -necessary certain further developments, -in order that respiration may be carried -on under circumstances which would -otherwise render it impossible. Such, -for example, are the various aquatic insects, -which, while spending the greater -part of their existence beneath the surface -of the water, must yet be enabled -to command a continual supply of atmospheric -air. They are not, as a rule, -furnished with gills like the fish, for it -is necessary that they should be able to -leave their ponds and streams at will, -and become for the time terrestrial or -aerial beings, subject to the same conditions -as others of their class. But -they are, nevertheless, provided with -certain modifications of structure, which -enable them to breathe with equal ease, -whether submerged in the water, crawling -upon the ground, or flying through -the air.</p> - -<p>Even in these modifications there is -considerable variety, dependent in all -cases upon the requirements of the individual -species. The Water-beetles, -for instance, which must be able to lurk -concealed among the weeds, &c., until a -victim comes within their reach, and then -to pursue and overtake it, carry down -with them a supply of air in a kind of -reservoir, situated between the body and -the wing-cases. The former of these is -concave and the latter convex, so that -a chamber of considerable size is -formed, containing sufficient for their -requirements during a tolerably long -period of time. And in these insects -the spiracles, instead of being situated -along the sides of the body, are placed -upon the upper surface of the abdomen, -so that they open into the air-chamber -itself, and allow the respiration to be -carried on without the slightest difficulty -or inconvenience.</p> - -<p>There is only one drawback to this arrangement, -and that is, that the increased -buoyance prevents the insect from remaining -beneath the water excepting at -the expense of active exertion, unless it -can find some submerged object to -which to cling. Even this disadvantage, -however, is more apparent than real, -for, while on the watch for prey, it is -necessary for the insect to remain as -motionless as possible, and, when engaged -in swimming, the peculiar action -of the oar-like limbs neutralizes the tendency -to rise towards the surface.</p> - -<p>Upon an average, a water-beetle remains -from fifteen to twenty minutes -without requiring to breathe; this -period being capable of considerable -extension should occasion arise. I have -forced one of these insects, for instance, -to stay beneath the surface for nearly an -hour and a half, by alarming it as often -as it attempted to rise. Generally -speaking, however, before the first half -hour is over, the beetle allows itself to -float to the surface, protrudes the tips -of the wing-cases, and expels the exhausted -air from the cavity beneath -them; a fresh supply is then taken in, -and the insect again dives, the entire -operation occupying barely a second of -time.</p> - -<p>The Water Scorpion affords us an instance -of a perfectly different structure.</p> - -<p>Here we have a being, feeding upon -living prey, which it must capture for -itself, and yet sluggish and slow of -foot. By stratagem alone, therefore, -can it hope to succeed, and it accordingly -lies hidden among the dead leaves, -sticks, &c., at the bottom of the water -until some luckless insect passes within -reach of its jaw-like fore-limbs. But -this may not occur for hours, and it is -imperatively necessary that no alarm -should be given by frequent journeys to -the surface in search of air. So, the -extremity of the body is furnished with -a curious organ consisting of two long -filaments, which are, in reality, tubular, -and which serve to convey air to the -spiracles. The extreme tips of these -project slightly above the surface when -the insect is at rest at the bottom of the -pond, so that respiration can be carried -on without difficulty, and without necessitating -the slightest change of position.</p> - -<p>A still more curious structure, although -of very much the same character, is afforded -us by the grubs of the common -Drone-fly. These are inhabitants of the -thickest and most fetid mud, dwelling -entirely beneath its surface, and consequently -cut off from all personal communication -with the atmosphere. But -from the end of the body proceeds a -long tube, which can be lengthened or -shortened at will, somewhat after the -manner of a telescope, and which conveys -air to the spiracles just as do -the tail filaments of the water scorpion. -Unable to change their position, these -“rat-tailed maggots,” as they are popularly -called, are yet independent of any -alteration in the depth of the water above -them, for the air-tube can be instantly -regulated to the required length, and so -insure an uninterrupted supply of air.</p> - -<p>Yet another system we find employed -in the case of the grub of the Dragon-fly, -which stands almost alone among insects -in its power of extracting the -necessary oxygen from the water itself. -This is one of the most rapacious of -living beings, ever upon the watch for -prey, and securing its victims, not by -stealth and fraud, but by open attack. -Its swimming powers, consequently, are -of a very high order, and are due to an -organ which serves the double purpose -of locomotion and respiration, and -which is one of the most wonderful -pieces of structure to be found in the -whole of the insect world.</p> - -<p>If a dragon-fly grub be even casually -examined, a curious five-pointed appendage -will be noticed at the extremity of -the body. If these five points be carefully -separated they will be seen to surround -the entrance to a tubular passage, -of about the diameter of an ordinary -pin. This passage runs throughout almost -the entire length of the body, and, -by the expansion and contraction of the -abdominal muscles, can be opened and -closed at will.</p> - -<p>When open, of course, it is instantly -filled with water; when closed, the contents -are driven out with some little -force. Consequently, the action of the -ejected fluid upon the surrounding water -drives the insect sharply forward, just -as a sky-rocket rises into the air owing -to the action of the expelled gases upon -the atmosphere. As soon as the effect -of the first stroke is at an end a second -contraction of the body takes place, and -the operation is repeated as often as -necessary. The water, while in the swimming -tube, however, is exhausted of its -oxygen, for the entrances to the respiratory -system are inside instead of outside -the body, and act in much the same -manner as do the gills of a fish. The -insect, therefore, is not obliged to visit -the surface of the water at all, and can -continue to search for prey without interruption.</p> - -<p>Such are some of the many modifications -brought about in insect structure -by the requirements of the respiratory -organs alone. Each, as will be noticed, -is specially adapted to individual wants, -and each is absolutely perfect in its own -way, insuring a continual supply of oxygen -for the purification of the blood, -whatever the conditions under which life -may be carried on.—<cite>Good Words.</cite></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2><a name="PIERRES_MOTTO" id="PIERRES_MOTTO">PIERRE'S MOTTO:</a><br /> - -<small>A CHACUN SELON SON TRAVAIL</small>.</h2> - -<p class="aut">A TALK IN A PARISIAN WORKSHOP ABOUT THE UNEQUAL DISTRIBUTION OF WEALTH.</p> - - - -<p>“<i lang="fr">A chacun selon son travail</i>, To each -man according to his work, that's my -way of looking at it. Go by that motto -and things will soon come right.”</p> - -<p>I heard this said, with great emphasis, -by Pierre Nigaud to some of his mates -as I entered the workshop. I went -there every month to collect the contributions -to a Provident Insurance Club, -to which several of the men belonged. -Pierre was on the whole an industrious -as well as clever workman, and had -joined the club readily, as he thought it -right to save something for his wife and -children, and to provide for a rainy day, -as the saying is.</p> - -<p>I had observed, however, that Pierre -on the last occasion when I saw him was -less frank than he used to be, and did -not hand over his money with the same -cheerful goodwill as formerly. What -was the cause I did not know, but he -soon made it plain. He had been listening -to some plausible people, or reading -some shallow treatises that made him -discontented with his lot.</p> - -<p>“I was just saying when you came -in,” he began, “<i lang="fr">A chacun selon son travail</i>, -To each man according to his work. -Don't you think that a good motto?”</p> - -<p>“Well, it sounds good, but it depends -how you apply it, and what you are talking -about.”</p> - -<p>“I was talking, I and my mates, -about the great inequality among people. -Riches are distributed in a very -strange and, I say, unjust fashion. Is -it not unjust that, while so many poor -fellows have to work hard to gain a few -pence a day, there are wealthy Nabobs -who haul in gold by shovelfuls? I read -in a paper the other day that the English -Duke of Westminster has an income -of twenty millions of francs, which -brings him at least 50,000 francs a day!”</p> - -<p>“Quite true, and he is far from being -the most wealthy man you might name, -I believe the Californian Mackay has -about seventy millions of income. -Rothschild, of Frankfort, left more than -a milliard. Astor and Vanderbilt, of -New York, and other millionaires on both -sides the ocean, have untold wealth.”</p> - -<p>“There, you see,” said Pierre; “and -what appears to me the worst wrong of -all is that these huge incomes belong -to people who do next to nothing, while -poverty is oftenest the lot of those who -work and toil the hardest. I call this -downright injustice. <i lang="fr">A chacun selon son -travail.</i> The riches ought to be with -those that work. That's my way of -looking at it.”</p> - -<p>“All right, Pierre,” said I; “there -is a good deal of truth in what you say. -It is quite true that in regard to the distribution -of wealth, as in regard to many -other things, this world is far from being -perfect. But do you think that if you -had the re-arrangement of society, and -the redistribution of riches, you could -proceed on some other and better plan?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly. I believe, without any -presumption, that I could,” said Pierre. -“What seems to me difficult is not to -make things better, but to make them -any worse than they are now!”</p> - -<p>One of the workmen here said that -nothing was simpler than to take the -surplus wealth of these rich men, and -divide it amongst the deserving poor.</p> - -<p>“That plan is just a little too simple,” -I remarked. “All the millions of a -Rothschild would go a very little way, if -divided among the population of Paris -alone, and we should soon have to resort -to other schemes to redress the ever-renewed -inequalities. No; no; what I -want Pierre to show us is some better -system of society, and he thinks he has -the key to the problem in his favorite -motto, <i lang="fr">A chacun selon son travail</i>. But -just let me remind you that in ancient -times there was a king of Spain who was -a bit of an astronomer; and looking at -the heavens, and wondering at the complicated -movements of the stars, he said -that if he had been consulted in the -matter he could have made a much -better and simpler arrangement. Your -purpose is not so ambitious and presumptuous -as his, for the heavens are the -work of the Almighty, who has imposed -upon Nature certain fixed laws; whereas -the laws of society are the work of -men, and men are liable to err. Let us -then hear what improvement you can -suggest in the laws and usages which -regulate the distribution of wealth.”</p> - -<p>Pierre was somewhat taken aback, for -he felt that the existing arrangements of -society were very complex, and it was -not easy to determine where the reform -should begin.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said I, “let us suppose that -a number of persons were set on shore -upon an island, where none had any -rights or property beyond the others. -Let us suppose that there are as yet no -laws, that there is no government, no past -history: all are free and equal, and you -have full power to organise the distribution -of wealth in this new society, and -to decide what is to be the share of -each. Come now, you have a <i lang="fr">carte -blanche</i>, let us hear what you would -do.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Pierre, “I should begin -by deciding that every one was to do -what he would and what he could, and -that every one should keep what he was -able by his work and industry to obtain. -<i lang="fr">A chacun selon son travail</i>: behold my -fundamental rule!”</p> - -<p>“It is an excellent rule,” I said, -“and I do not think any one could find -a better. It appears to me to be just, -and also eminently practical, for it would -stimulate every one to produce by his -industry as much as he could. I see by -this that you are no advocate of Communism.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not,” said Pierre. “Communism -is a very good thing in a family, -where every one exerts himself to -work for those he loves, and accepts -without murmur his share of work, -certain that the mother, or whoever -is housekeeper, manages the common -purse with thrift, and in the interest -of all. But in a large society, I do not -think that men are equally willing to -exert themselves for those whom they -have no knowledge of and no special -attachment to. Besides, in Communism -under the State, the manager holding the -purse strings would be no other than the -Government, and I would not have confidence -in its management being wise -and economical.”</p> - -<p>“I quite agree with you. But let us -return to your plan. After establishing -your principle, “to each one the produce -of his labor,” what would you do then?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing at all; every one would -then stand on his own bottom. He that -works well would have sufficient, and he -who did no work would have nothing.”</p> - -<p>“You do not imagine,” I observed, -“that you would obtain equality by -these conditions? Since every one has -to take his part in the work, it is evident -that these parts will be small or great, -according as each is industrious or not. -You would soon come to have in your -new society the rich and the poor.”</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps; but at all events -there would be none too rich or too -poor.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know that? Here are -two families: in one the habits of work, -of order, of economy, are hereditary; -the other is given, from father to son, -to idleness, improvidence, and dissipation. -The distance that separates these -families, small at first, must go on increasing, -till in the natural course of -things, sooner or later, there would come -to be the same inequality as between -Rothschild and a beggar. It would only -be a question of time.”</p> - -<p>Pierre's companions, who were listening -attentively to the discussion, here -murmured assent, or what would correspond -to the “Hear, hear!” of more -formal debates. Pierre, however, merely -remarked that this result might seem opposed -to his views, but that he nevertheless -accepted it; “because,” said he, -“in this case the inequality of riches -would at least be the result of work and -of the efforts of each worker. There -would be no injustice.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me, Pierre, but I think that -your motto is still causing you to cherish -some illusions. Let me show you my -way of looking at it. <i lang="fr">A chacun selon son -travail</i>, you say, To every one the -product of his own industry. But what is -the proprietor to do with the product of -his labor? He will no doubt sell all that -is over and above what he needs for his -own use, and the price of what is sold -will form his income. But the price of -things depends on a variety of conditions -independent of our personal labor -and our own will; such for instance, as -the vicissitudes of seasons and the variations -of the markets. Out of a difference -of ten francs in the price of wine -may result the fortune or the ruin of a -proprietor, and that proves nothing as to -his having himself labored well or ill. -The revenue or net profit is rarely in -exact proportion to the labor bestowed, -in farming or vine-growing or any other -industry. What we call chance will -always play its part in the affairs of this -world, and in the new world which you -are planning you cannot hinder Fortune -from dispensing her favors in an unequal -fashion; it is not without reason -that she is represented with a bandage -over her eyes!”</p> - -<p>“Ah, bah!” exclaimed Pierre; “you -disconcert me with your suppositions. -What do you want? I firmly believe that -in my colony, as everywhere, there will -be good and bad luck, but while the -chances are equal for all, and there is no -place for wrong-doing or trickery, I -console myself. At least you will admit -that my principle, <i lang="fr">A chacun le produit de -son travail</i>, will have this good result, -that it will render impossible the existence -of rich idle people who pass their -life in doing nothing.”</p> - -<p>“Are you quite sure of that, Pierre? -If any one after working ten or twenty -years has produced enough property to -suffice for his wants during the remainder -of his days, do you pretend to hinder -him from spending in his own way, in -idleness if he pleases, what he had -amassed by his labors?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not, because such a one -would be living on the product of his -own toil. Let a man rest in the evening -after having worked hard in the morning, -and let him live in ease in his old -age after having produced enough by the -toil of his youth; I see no harm in that. -I have no wish to condemn the members -of my colony to forced labor in perpetuity. -The only idlers that I wish to -exclude are those who live without ever -having worked at all or produced anything—the -<i lang="fr">rentiers</i>, as they call them, or -idle people, who live on their income, or -the interest of their money.”</p> - -<p>“Stop now, Pierre; do you admit -that a man who has obtained anything -by his labor has the right to do what he -pleases with it?”</p> - -<p>“Assuredly.”</p> - -<p>“Here is a man who has made a loaf -of bread. You admit his right to eat it -all if he is hungry, or to set part of it -aside if he has not appetite at the time -for all of it, or even to throw some of it -away, as he pleases.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is a consequence of my principle, -<i lang="fr">A chacun le produit de son travail</i>. -He who creates wealth has the right -to dispose of it as he pleases. But -what has that to do with your argument?”</p> - -<p>“Just this. If he who produces a -thing can do what he pleases with it, he -can surely give it where he pleases. If, -then, it suits me to make every day a -loaf for you, and to give it to you; still -more, if it pleases me to give to you out -of my property or to bequeath to you -after my death enough bread, or, what -comes to the same thing, enough money -to support you during your life, you will -have acquired the means of walking -about with your hands in your pockets -like an idle gentleman. You will, in -fact, have become a <i lang="fr">rentier</i>.”</p> - -<p>Never,” said Pierre, “never. If I -allowed such parasites to exist in my -new society it would be no better than -the old.”</p> - -<p>“Then don't talk any more about -your motto, <i lang="fr">A chacun le produit de son -travail</i>. If you adopt this principle you -must adopt also its consequences, whether -you like them or not. If, according -to your system, you admit to every one -the right of disposing of the fruit of his -labor, you must admit the right to receive -as well as to give. Where the worker -is master of his own property it depends -on him whether he will create a -<i lang="fr">rentier</i>, and you cannot prevent him except -by decreeing that he is incapable of -disposing of what belongs to him. Beware -of what must happen otherwise. If in -your new society you prevented parents -from giving or leaving to their children -the property they have amassed, there -would be risk of their amassing far less -or of dissipating what they had already -been able to accumulate by their industry -and thrift, which would be a great loss -for all. We must allow, in fact, and it -is to the honor of human nature, that -there are very many in this world who -work more and save more for their children -and for others rather than for themselves.”</p> - -<p>“Well, sir, if in my new society there -must eventually be rich and poor, workers -and non-workers: if the portion of -each is not necessarily proportioned to -their labor then how, I wish to know, -would this new society which I have -taken such trouble to plan and organise, -how would it differ from the society in -which we now live?”</p> - -<p>“In nothing at all, my good friend, -and this it just what I wished to demonstrate -to you. You see that the world in -which we live is, after all, not so badly -organised, seeing that the new one which -you have tried to create on better principles, -as you imagined, turns out, at -the end of the account, to be an exact -reproduction of the existing system.”—<cite>Leisure -Hour.</cite></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="BEHIND_THE_SCENES">BEHIND THE SCENES.</h2> - -<p class="aut">BY F. C. BURNAND.</p> - - -<p>During the past year there has been -a considerable amount of discussion, -within the circumference of a comparatively -inconsiderable circle, as to the -social position of the professional actor. -It is a subject that crops up from time -to time, attracting more or less attention -to itself, from those outside the boundary, -according to whatever may happen -to be the prevalent artistic development, -or the latest fashionable craze. The -tone of the disputants and the weight -of their individual character must, of -course, be taken into account. The -actor is of all professors of any kind of -art the one who is most before the public. -The result of his study is ephemeral: -“he struts and frets his hour -upon the stage and then is heard no -more,” though nowadays the strutting -and fretting are not by any means limited -to the hour upon the stage; and at the -present time there seems to be some -anxiety on the part of the children of -Thespis to obtain such an authoritative -definition of their status, as shall put -their position in society above all question, -by placing them on a level with the -members of the recognised professions. -It is asserted that the professional actor -is far differently situated now from what -he was fifty, or even thirty years ago. -Actor and actress are, it is pointed out, -received everywhere, petted, fêted, -lionized, and made much of; our young -men of birth and education but of -limited purse, take to the stage, professionally, -as a honorable means of earning -their livelihood, just as the youngest son -of a good, but impoverished family, used -to be sent into the Church in order to -hold a family living. Further, it has -been said that for our young ladies to go -on the stage is not now considered, as -heretofore, a disgrace, but, on the contrary, -rather a plume in their bonnet. -Altogether it may be fairly inferred -that there has recently been a movement -theatrewards, favorable to the -social prospects of the professional -actor. But has it been anything more -than this? Is the actor's calling one -whit nearer being recognised as on a -social equality with the regular professions -than it was fifty years ago?</p> - -<p>Throughout this article I shall use the -word “society” in its widest and most -comprehensive acceptation, except of -course where its limitation is expressly -stated.</p> - -<p>A “status in society” means a certain -standing among one's fellow subjects, -fixed by law, recognised by traditional -usage, and acknowledged by every one, -from the highest to the lowest. Formerly, -it must be admitted, that as one of -the “rogues and vagabonds” by Act of -Parliament the actor, <i>quâ</i> actor, had no -more status in society than the professional -beggar with whom he was unjustly -classed.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">“The strolling tribe, a despicable race,</div> - <div class="verse">Like wandering Arabs, shift from place to place.”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<p>And even now, when this blot on our -statute-book has been erased, a respectable -theatrical company, travelling in the -provinces, is described in the law courts -as “a company of strolling players.” -Undoubtedly, in a liberal age, the actor's -disabilities have been removed; but is -he not asking for what is an impossibility -from the very nature of the case, -when he advances a claim for the recognition -of his “calling” as on an equality -with the acknowledged professions, -which, of themselves, confer a certain -honorable <em>status</em> on their members, -stamping them, so far, gentlemen? A -man who is a gentleman by birth and -education is, as Mrs. Micawber phrases -it, “eligible” for the best society; and -he can only forfeit his social position by -misconduct. Now, one question is, -does “going on the stage” imply forfeiture -of social position? To consider -this impartially we must get entirely -away from Leo Hunter associations and -cliques established on the mutual-admiration -principle. The test cases are -soon and easily put. Let us suppose the -case of the son of an impoverished peer. -He cannot afford to be idle. He has a -liking for the bar: he passes his examination -and becomes a barrister; or he -has an inclination for the Church, and -there being a family living vacant, and -plenty of interest to get him on, he takes -orders. In either case does he forfeit -his social position? Certainly not: if -anything, he improves it by becoming a -member of an honorable and dignified -profession. Supposing he has money, -and prefers soldiering or sailoring to -doing absolutely nothing, does he forfeit -his social position by becoming an -officer? Certainly not: on the contrary -he improves his already good social -status. I maintain that, <i lang="la">prima facie</i>, -for a man to be an officer, a barrister, or -a clergyman, is in itself a passport to -any English society. Wherever he is -personally unknown, it is assumed that -he is a gentleman, until the contrary is -proved; and this assumption is on the -strength of his profession only. Let the -rank of our hypothetical peer's son be -subsequently discovered, and for that -representative portion of society which -has “entertained an angel unawares,” -he has the recommendation of his nobility -<em>plus</em> the social position implied by -his profession.</p> - -<p>But how if the son of our “poor nobleman” -have a taste for theatricals, and, -after being at Eton and Oxford, determine -on “adopting the stage as a profession,” -or, as it might be more correctly -put, “in lieu of a profession.” -What will his noble father and his -relatives say to this step? Will they -be as pleased as if he were going into -the army, or to the bar, or into the -Church? Not exactly. If he became -an officer, a barrister, or a clergyman, -the event would be officially notified in -due form; but if he went on the stage -there would be startling paragraphs in -the papers announcing “The Son of an -Earl on the Stage,” “The Honorable -Mr. So-and-So has adopted the profession -of the stage, &c., &c.” “Well, -and why not?” some will exclaim; and -others will commend his pluck, and -say, “Quite right too.” I entirely -agree with them. But the point is, has -the young gentleman taken a step up the -social ladder, or has he gone more than -two or three down? Has he improved -his position, or injured it? Certainly, -as matters stand, there can be but one -answer,—the step he has taken has seriously -affected the position to which his -birth and education entitle him.</p> - -<p>As a barrister on circuit I have supposed -him received <i>quâ</i> barrister with -his legal brethren; as an officer, quartered -in a garrison town, we know he -will be received <i>quâ</i> officer, with his -brother officers, and no questions -asked; and I have alluded to the satisfaction -that will be felt (snobbery -of course is taken for granted everywhere) -when his rank is discovered. -But as a player with other players in a -country town, will he be received by -society, it being understood that <em>because</em> -he is a player, <em>therefore</em> he is a gentleman -by birth and education? On becoming -a soldier, or a barrister, does -any one change his name? No: but on -going “on the stage” it is the rule for -any one to conceal his identity under -some name widely different from his -own, just as he conceals his individuality -behind the footlights with cosmetics, -burnt cork, and an eccentric wig. -When it is ascertained who he is, will -this same society, which would have received -him as a barrister, be satisfied -and delighted? No, probably scandalised. -It will be with these simple, old-fashioned -persons a foregone conclusion -that this scion of a noble house must be -a loose sort of fellow, and they will -decide that the less they see of him the -better.</p> - -<p>There is one reason why the aspirant -for Thespian honors (if such he really -be) should change his name, and that is -the chance of failure. If he goes on the -stage as somebody else, and fails as -somebody else, very few will hear of it, -and he may quit “the boards” none the -worse, perhaps for the experience; but -for some considerable time, until in fact -he has “lived it down,” he will be very -careful to conceal this episode in his -career from the world at large.</p> - -<p>Before getting at the very essence of -the difficulty, I will ask in what light do -our upper-middle class, and upper-lower -middle class, and the remainder of that -form (the public school divisions are useful) -regard the stage as a means of earning -a livelihood?</p> - -<p>We must put out of the case entirely -all instances of genius. An histrionic -genius <em>will</em> be an actor, and his success -will justify his choice. The force of his -genius will take him everywhere. -Genius excuses a multitude of faults and -solecisms. We must, too, leave out of -the question cases of exceptional talent, -where there is more than an occasional -spark of the <i lang="fr">feu sacré</i>. Whether -histrionic genius could be better utilised -than on the stage, may occur to some -serious minds with a decided anti-theatrical -bias. But the histrion for the -stage, and the stage for the histrion, -and we must take the stage as it is for -what it is, and not for what it is not. -Such a reform of the stage, as shall give -its members something like the status -they very properly covet, is a matter for -future consideration. Let it be understood -then—and I cannot impress this too -often on those who do me the honor of -reading my contribution towards the -discussion,—that I am only speaking of -very ordinary men and women taking to -the stage as a means of earning their -livelihood. The men first; it is not yet -awhile <i lang="fr">place aux dames</i>, when professions -are concerned.</p> - -<p>Whatever theatrical biography I have -taken up, I can call to mind but very -few instances of a man going on the -stage with the full approbation of his -relatives. Let his parents be small or -large tradesmen, civil servants, clerks in -the City, no matter what, they rarely -took kindly to their son “going on the -stage.” It was so: is it not so now? -The bourgeois is as dead against his son -becoming an actor as ever he was. -Scratch the British bourgeois and you'll -come upon the puritan.</p> - - - -<p>Supposing a tradesman, free from narrow -prejudices, and theatrically inclined, -a regular theatre-goer in fact,—will he -be one whit more favorable to his son's -becoming an actor? No: rather the -contrary. He will not indeed regard -him as going straight to a place unmentionable, -as probably he will not consider -the religious bearings of the “vocation” -at all, but he will not give the youth -his blessing, and he may contemplate -omitting his name from his will. Supposing -this same son had told his father -that he wanted to be a barrister, and in -order to do so he should like, as a first -step, to serve as a clerk in a solicitor's -office, wouldn't the old tradesman be -pleased? Certainly. He might, indeed, -prove to the lad that if he would stick to -the business he would be better off for a -certainty, but, all the same, the youth's -aspirations would give his parent considerable -pleasure. And, to be brief, -here is a case which will bring the question -directly home to every one; given -equality in every other respect, and -which would be preferred as a son-in-law, -the ordinary actor, or the briefless -barrister?</p> - -<p>The question of the social status of -the stage is still more important as -affecting ladies who have to earn their -livelihood. At the present day there are -more chances of suitable employment -for educated, respectably-connected -girls than there were fifty years ago. As -yet, however, the demand exceeds the -supply. Few occupations insure to successful -ladies such good pay as stage-playing; -but, as in the previous instances, -“on the spear side,” so now -we must consider the case of girls of -ordinary intelligence, well brought up, -not by any means geniuses, with no particular -talent, and who have to earn -their living. If they cannot paint plates -and doileys, or copy pictures in oils, if -they object to any clerkly drudgery -that has something menial in it, and if, -as has been affirmed, they “turn with a -sigh of relief towards the vista of the -stage,” let us see what this “vista” has -to offer, and on what terms. And to do -this we had better take a glance at -“professional,” <i>i.e.</i>, “theatrical” life.</p> - -<p>What Tom Robertson, whose personal -experience of every variety of theatrical -life was considerable, in his thoroughly -English (let us be grateful for this, at -all events) play of <i>Caste</i> left to the imagination, -in giving us Eccles as a -widower, and bestowing an honest, -hard-working lover on Polly (this was a -mistake, except as a concession to respectability, -for Polly was never meant to -be a Mrs. Sam Gerridge, a small tradesman's -wife, or, if she were, so much the -worse for Sam), M. Halévy in his -<cite>Monsieur et Madame Cardinal</cite> has put -before his readers very plainly. The -scenes in Georges Ohnet's <cite>Lise Flueron</cite> -are not merely peculiar to the French -stage; and only to those who want to -know the seamy side of a strolling player's -life would I recommend <cite>A Mummer's -Wife</cite>, but not otherwise, as the -realism of Mr. Moore's story is repulsive. -Be it remembered, however, -that the best chance for girls who seek -an engagement at a London theatre, -is to travel with a company “on -tour,” and so learn experience by constant -and frequently varying practice. -“The Stage” is an art, and not a profession, -and an art which, as a means of -obtaining a bare livelihood, is open to -everybody possessing ordinary natural -faculties, offering employment without -requiring from the applicants any special -qualification or any certificate from -schoolmaster, pastor, or master, and -therefore it must be the resort of all -who, unable or unwilling to do anything -else, are content to earn their few shillings -a week, and to be in the same category -with Garrick, Macready, Phelps, -and Kean; for the “super” who earns -his money by strict attention to business, -and who has night after night, for -a lifetime, no more than a few lines to -say, is briefly described in the census as -“Actor,” as would be the leading tragedian -or comedian of the day. He is a -supernumerary, <i>i.e.</i>, a supernumerary -actor; and a supernumerary, abbreviated -to “super,” attached to the -theatre, he lives and dies. In civil and -Government offices there are supernumeraries. -They are supernumerary -clerks, and none the less clerks on that -account. If taken on to the regular staff -they cease to be called supernumeraries, -and if a super on the stage should exhibit -decided histrionic talent, he, too, -would cease to be a super and become -an actor, that is, he would drop the -qualification of “supernumerary.” So -for the “extra ladies,” as they are -politely termed, who are the female -supers. As a rule, the extras are a good, -hard-working people as you will find -anywhere. They have “come down” -to this, and in most cases consider their -position as a descent in the social scale, -no matter what they may have been before. -A few may take the place for the -sake of obtaining “an appearance,” -with a view to something better; some as -a means of honest livelihood, and to help -the family in its “little house in Stangate;” -and others, to whom a small -salary is not so much an object as to obtain -relief from the monotony of evenings -at home, take to the stage in this, -or any other capacity, as “extras” in -burlesque, in pantomime, or as -strengthening a chorus; and to these -the theatre is a source of profitable -amusement. These being some of the -essential component parts of most -theatrical companies, would any of us -wish our daughters to “go on the -stage?”</p> - -<p>There can be but one answer to this: -No; certainly we would rather they -did not choose the stage as the means of -earning a livelihood. But some objector -will say, “Surely my daughter need -not associate with such persons as you -describe.” I answer No; she need not -off the stage, but how is she to avoid -it in the theatre? Your daughter, -my dear sir, is not all at once a Mrs. -Siddons; she is a beginner. Perhaps -she never will be a Mrs. Siddons; perhaps -she will never get beyond playing a -soubrette, or, if she cannot deliver her -lines well, and has not the fatal gift of -beauty, she may, being there only to -earn her livelihood, be compelled to remain -among the extras. At all events, -she cannot expect to consort in the -theatre with the stars and with the -leading ladies. The manageress may -“know her at home,” and do everything -she can for her; but she cannot -be unjust to others, and your daughter -must dress in the same room with the -“extras,” just as Lord Tomnoddy, -should he choose to take the Queen's -shilling, must put up with the other -privates in barracks. The officers may -have “known him at home,” but that -can't be helped now. Your daughter, -my dear lady, goes on to the stage in -preference to being a governess, to earn -money to relieve her parents of a burden, -and to replenish the family purse. -Excellent motive! But can you, her -mother, always be with her? Can you -accompany her to rehearsals, and be -with her every evening in the dressing-room -of the theatre, where there are -generally about a dozen others, more or -less according to the accommodation provided -by the theatre? If you make your -companionship a <i lang="la">sine quâ non</i>, will it not -prevent any manager from engaging your -daughter? They cannot have the dressing-rooms -full of mothers; they cannot -spare the space, and mothers cannot be -permitted to encumber green-rooms and -the “wings.” You may have implicit -confidence in your child and in her manager -and manageress, but the latter have -something else to do besides looking -after your daughter. “Some theatres,” -you will say, “are more respectable than -others.” True; but your daughter having -to earn her daily bread by her profession, -cannot select her theatre. It is -a hard saying, that beggars must not be -choosers. Lucky for your daughter if -she obtains employment in a small -theatre where only comedy is played.<a id="FNanchor_38_38" href="#Footnote_38_38" class="fnanchor">38</a> -But the chances are against her, and she -will be compelled to take the first engagement -that offers itself, which will -probably be at some large theatre where -there is employment for any number of -extra ladies, and where the salaries are -really very good, if your daughter is -only showy enough to make herself an -attraction. You ask “what sort of -attraction?” Well, have you any objection -to her appearing as a page in an -extravaganza? Consider that anyone -who plays Shakespeare's heroines, Viola -or Rosalind, must wear much the same -costume; but the other ladies who play -pages, and some of whom will be her -companions in the dressing-room, are -they just the sort of girls you would like -your daughter to be with every evening -of her life? If your well-brought-up -daughter does go there one of two -things will happen,—she will be either -so thoroughly disgusted at all she hears -and sees that she will never go near the -place after the first week, or she will -unconsciously deteriorate in tone, until -the fixed lines of the moral boundary -have become blurred and faint. If -among these surroundings a girl remain -pure in heart, it is simply nothing short -of a miracle of grace. Would you like -to expose your daughter to this atmosphere? -Of course not. How can I -put the question? but I <em>do</em> put the question, -after giving you the information of -the facts of the case. Even in a first-class -theatre, for a Shakespearian -revival, there must be a large number of -all sorts engaged, and with them, your -daughter, as beginner, will have to consort, -and she cannot have her mother -always at her elbow. Besides her -mother cannot neglect her other daughters, -or her household duties, to attend -to the youthful actress.</p> - -<p>Now supposing a young lady at once -obtains an engagement at a reputable -theatre, and is cast for a good part. -What then? Then the atmosphere of -the theatre at its best is not a pleasant -one. Your daughter will be astonished -at the extraordinary variations of manner, -from the abjectly servile to the free-and-easy, -described in Mr. Namby's -case as “Botany Bay gentility.” She -will hear everybody “my dearing” one -another. At first she will not understand -half that is said, and very little -that is meant. When they all warm to -their work, the veneer of politeness is -soon rubbed off, and actor and actress -are seen as the real artistes they are. -The stage manager comes out strongly -too; strange words are used, and -whether it be high art or not that is -being illustrated, there is pretty sure to -be a considerable amount of forcible -language employed in the excitement of -the moment. Your daughter's ideas -of propriety will be rudely shocked at -every turn. When she ceases to be even -astonished, she will be unconsciously -deteriorating.</p> - -<p>There is one sort of girl to whom all -this does no harm, and that is the girl -who comes of a hard-working professional -theatrical family, who has been -decently brought up in the middle of it -all from a child, whose father and -mother are in the theatre, thoroughly -respectable people, and as careful of -their daughter s morals as though she -were the niece of a bishop. Such a -girl as this, if she remain on the stage, -will be a tolerable actress, always sure -of an engagement. She will marry a -decent, respectable actor, of some one -connected with theatricals, will bring up -a family excellently, will be really religious -without ostentation, will never -lose her self-respect, and in her own -way be perfectly domesticated, happy -and contented. Or she may marry some -one in a good social position: if so, she -will quit the stage without regret, because -she is not of the stuff of which -great actresses are made; but she will -look back on her theatrical experience -with affection for her parents to whom -she owed so much. She is neither -Esther, nor Polly Eccles, nor is she in -the position of the well-brought-up -young lady we have been considering. -But she is an admirable woman, in whatever -station of life her lot may be cast, -and not a bit of a snob.</p> - -<p>For a young lady, travelling with a -company would be simply impossible, -unless accompanied by her mother, or -by some trustworthy relative. A manageress -might undertake the guardianship -and execute the trust conscientiously. -But this is an exceptional case.</p> - -<p>There is another point, and a very -important one, to be considered, and -that is the artistic temperament. If a -young lady of attractive personal appearance -possesses histrionic talent, then in -proportion to her talent will be her -temperament. She will be impulsive, -passionate, impressionable, self-willed, -impatient of control, simple, confiding, -and vain, but artistically vain, and -desirous of applause. She will be -illogical, inconsistent, full of contradictions, -fond of variety, and unable to -exist without excitement. It only requires -her to be a genius to be duped by -the first schemer that throws himself in -her way.</p> - -<p>So, when the theatrical profession is -brought before you, my dear madam, as -a calling for your daughter to follow, you -see that on the one hand there is mediocrity -and deterioration of character, -and on the other success, at, probably, -a ruinous price. This does not apply, -and again I impress it on my readers, to -those who are to the manner born. -They will lead jog-trot lives, study their -parts, make puddings, act mechanically -every night, knit socks in the green-room, -and be virtuous and happy to the -end of their days. Their artistic temperament -will not lead them very far -astray, unless they have the <i lang="fr">feu sacré</i>, -and then, it is likely, they will make a -hasty marriage, repent at leisure, and -try to forget they ever bore a husband's -name by making one for themselves. In -some recent French romance an ex-actress -is warning her daughter who has -married a prince, against the fascinations -of a young painter. The princess -turns on her mother with, “Est ce ma -faute à moi si j'ai dans les veines du sang -d'artiste?” And the ex-comédienne -feels the full force of her daughter's retort, -which has in it a certain amount of -truth. Public life has great dangers for -young women of the artistic temperament: -mothers cannot be always with -them, and sheep-dogs are expensive and -untrustworthy. Chance or ill-luck may -bring your daughter, madam, to the -stage, but you would not choose it for -her, that is, the stage, being as it is, and -as it is likely to be under the present conditions. -When those conditions are -altered for the better, it will be time -enough for society to change its opinion -on the subject.</p> - -<p>But, it is urged, the present state of -the stage is a vast improvement on the -past; that the actor is a person of more -consideration than formerly, and not -necessarily tabooed from all society, -but on the contrary, he is to be met in -the very best drawing-rooms. It may -be that a few, whom you may count on -the fingers of both hands, have the -<i lang="fr">entrée</i> to the best society. It may be -so; I am not in a position to deny it. -But their genius, or talent, and their -unblemished reputation have combined -to place them on that pedestal exalted -above their fellows. But was it not -always so? Have there not always been -a privileged few among the actors, as -among other citizens of the Great Republic -of Art and Letters, who have -been admitted to the assemblies of the -great, and whose hospitality the great -have condescended to accept in return? -Go back thirty years and at least a -dozen names of prominent actors and -actresses will occur to us as having been -received in the best society. Now, in -their time, the number of West-end -theatres was about one-third of what it -is at the present day. Therefore, if five -actors were received by society then, -there should be fifteen received now. -If there are not, the stage of to-day is -socially on the same level with the stage -of thirty years ago, and has not advanced -a step; if the number of presentable -actors is, nowadays, less, then the stage -has retrograded. I cannot make out -that there are more received than -formerly. There are a few University -men on the stage, men of birth and education, -entitled to be received in good -society. But now we are speaking of -only a section of society, and are begging -the original question.</p> - -<p>And why, from the nature of the case, -cannot the stage ever rank with the -recognised professions? Because, as a -means of earning a livelihood, that is as -a mere employment, the stage is open to -all the world. Unlike painting, literature, -and music, it requires no special -knowledge of any sort; it can be practised -as well by the unlearned as, though -not with the same facility, by the -learned. It is a self-educating profession. -Physical gifts, up to a certain -point, will make up for deficiency in talent: -but given talent, and with perseverance -and application even for the most -illiterate, success is certain. Given -genius, then “reading and writing” -seem to “come by nature,” and though -there may always be a little difficulty with -the spelling, yet triumph is sure and -swift. The stage requires no matriculation; -but for an actor of talent, who -loves his art, there is no limit to his -studies,—one helps another, one leads -to another. As far as society is concerned, -there should be no one more -thoroughly qualified to play a leading -part in the very highest, the most intellectual, -and most cultivated society, -than the actor or actress, who is rising -in or who has reached the summit of -“the profession.” Scarcely a subject -can be named that is not, in its degree, -almost essential—a strong word, but -on consideration used correctly—to the -perfection of the actor's art. A first-rate -actor should be an admirable Crichton. -The best preparation for the stage is, -as I have elsewhere insisted, a thorough -education. True, that it is so for every -calling, but especially for the stage. To -belong to the bar of England is an -honor in itself, even though the barrister -never gets a brief and could do nothing -with it if he did. To belong to the stage -of England is <em>not</em> an honor in itself. -To the genius, the talents, and the -private worth of our eminent actors in -the past and in the present, our stage -owes its lustre. They owed nothing -to the stage, the stage everything to -them.</p> - -<p>The desire to raise the social status of -the actor so that the term actor shall be -“synonymous with gentleman,” is worthy -of all praise. To make it possible -for young ladies of education to take to -acting as a means of earning a livelihood, -would be a great social benefit.</p> - -<p>When a youth, well brought up, takes -to the stage, he should not be immediately -treated as a pariah. On the contrary, -if ever there be a time in a young man's -career when more than ever he stands in -need of good home traditions, the companionship -of his equals, and the encouragement -of his superiors, it is when -he has honestly chosen, as a means of -earning his living, the stage as a profession. -That, for evident reasons, it has -been usually selected by the dissolute, -the idle, and those to whom any restraint -is distasteful, accounts to a great extent -for the disrepute in which the stage has -been held. Of course the statute-book -and the puritanism of the seventeenth -century have much to answer for in the -popular estimate of the players. There -is a strong leaven of Puritanism amongst -us, and, in some respects, so much the -better; but also among very excellent -people of various religious opinions, -there has been, and it exists now, a sort -of vague idea that the stage has always -been under the positive ban of the -Church. In the temporary laws and -regulations of different countries, enforced -by narrow-minded men, civil or -ecclesiastical, may be found the origin -of this mistaken notion. The Church -has never pronounced the stage the -anathema. On the contrary, she has -patronised the stage, and the first mimes -who entered France from Italy rather -resembled members of a religious order -in their pious fervor, than actors of a -later date in their laxity. If players -were refused Christian burial, it was -when they had neither lived nor died as -even nominal Christians, and in such -cases even “maimed rites” would savor -of hypocrisy. In France the actors -themselves were under this hallucination. -M. Regnier tells us how in 1848 a deputation -of comedians went to Monseigneur -Affre to ask him to get the sentence -of excommunication removed from the -theatrical profession. “L'illustre prélat -leur répondit qu'il n'y avait pas à la lever, -parcequ'elle n'avait jamais été formulée, -et que les comédiens français, -comme les comédiens de tous les autres -pays catholiques, pouvaient participer -aux sacraments.”</p> - -<p>It would be a comparatively easy task -to trace the origin of this floating but -perfectly false tradition, but I have already -overrun the limit of this article. -In the time of Louis XIII. the actors -were excellent church-goers, had their -children baptised, frequented the sacraments, -and were on the best terms -with curés of Paris; and it will be a -consolation to those actors among us -who, like the doll in the song, “pine for -higher society” to be reminded, that -the grand monarch himself did not disdain -to stand god-father at the font to -the first-born of Molière, and to do the -like office to the third child of Domenico -Biancolelli, the Italian harlequin.</p> - -<p>Our leading actors and actresses of -the present day will naturally strive, no -less than those of the past, to do their -best for the stage, and, in return, the -patrons of the drama will do their best -for them. But to claim for it, as its right, -the social status of the recognised professions, -and to be fussily indignant with -society at large for refusing to acknowledge -this groundless claim, is degrading -to an art which should be as independent -and as exalted as virtue, and content -with virtue's reward.—<cite>Fortnightly Review.</cite></p> - - - - - - - -<hr class="chap" /> - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="GO_TO_THE_ANT">GO TO THE ANT.</h2> - -<p>In the market-place at Santa Fé, in -Mexico, peasant women from the neighboring -villages bring in for sale trayfuls -of living ants, each about as big and -round as a large white currant, and each -entirely filled with honey or grape-sugar, -much appreciated by the ingenuous Mexican -youth as an excellent substitute for -Everton toffee. The method of eating -them would hardly command the approbation -of the Society for the Prevention -of Cruelty to Animals. It is simple and -primitive, but decidedly not humane. -Ingenuous youth holds the ant by its -head and shoulders, sucks out the honey -with which the back part is absurdly -distended, and throws away the empty -body as a thing with which it has now -no further sympathy. Maturer age buys -the ants by the quart, presses out the -honey through a muslin strainer, and -manufactures it into a very sweet intoxicating -drink, something like shandygaff, -as I am credibly informed by bold persons -who have ventured to experiment -upon it, taken internally.</p> - -<p>The curious insect which thus serves -as an animated sweetmeat for the Mexican -children is the honey-ant of the -Garden of the Gods; and it affords a -beautiful example of Mandeville's -charming paradox that personal vices -are public benefits—<i lang="la">vitia privata humana -commoda</i>. The honey-ant is a greedy individual -who has nevertheless nobly devoted -himself for the good of the community -by converting himself into a -living honey-jar, from which all the -other ants in his own nest may help -themselves freely from time to time, as -occasion demands. The tribe to which -he belongs lives underground, in a dome-roofed -vault, and only one particular -caste among the workers, known as rotunds -from their expansive girth, is told -off for this special duty of storing honey -within their own bodies. Clinging to -the top of their nest, with their round, -transparent abdomens hanging down -loosely, mere globules of skin enclosing -the pale amber-colored honey, these -Daniel Lamberts of the insect race look -for all the world like clusters of the little -American Delaware grapes, with an ant's -legs and head stuck awkwardly on to the -end instead of a stalk. They have, in -fact, realised in everyday life the awful -fate of Mr. Gilbert's discontented sugar-broker, -who laid on flesh and “adipose -deposit” until he became converted at -last into a perfect rolling ball of globular -humanity.</p> - -<p>The manners of the honey-ant race -are very simple. Most of the members -of each community are active and roving -in their dispositions, and show no tendency -to undue distension of the nether -extremities. They go out at night and -collect nectar or honey-dew from the gall-insects -on oak-trees; for the gall-insect, -like love in the old Latin saw, is fruitful -both in sweets and bitters, <i lang="fr">melle et felle</i>. -This nectar they then carry home, and -give it to the rotunds or honey-bearers, -who swallow it and store it in their round -abdomen until they can hold no more, -having stretched their skins literally to -the very point of bursting. They pass -their time, like the Fat Boy in “Pickwick,” -chiefly in sleeping, but they cling -upside down meanwhile to the roof of -their residence. When the workers in -turn require a meal, they go up to the -nearest honey-bearer and stroke her gently -with their antennæ. The honey-bearer -thereupon throws up her head and regurgitates -a large drop of the amber liquid. -(“Regurgitates” is a good word, which -I borrow from Dr. McCook, of Philadelphia, -the great authority upon honey-ants; -and it saves an immense deal of -trouble in looking about for a respectable -periphrasis). The workers feed -upon the drops thus exuded, two or three -at once often standing around the living -honey-jar, and lapping nectar together -from the lips of their devoted comrade. -This may seem at first sight rather an unpleasant -practice on the part of the ants; -but, after all, how does it really differ -from our own habit of eating honey -which has been treated in very much -the same unsophisticated manner by the -domestic bee?</p> - -<p>Worse things than these, however, -Dr. McCook records to the discredit of -the Colorado honey-ant. When he was -opening some nests in the Garden of the -Gods, he happened accidentally to knock -down some of the rotunds, which -straightway burst asunder in the middle, -and scattered their store of honey on the -floor of the nest. At once the other ants, -tempted away from their instinctive task -of carrying off the cocoons and young -grubs, clustered around their unfortunate -companion, like street boys around -a broken molasses barrel, and instead of -forming themselves forthwith into a -volunteer ambulance company, proceeded -immediately to lap up the honey -from their dying brother. On the other -hand, it must be said, to the credit of the -race, that (unlike the members of Arctic -expeditions) they never desecrate the remains -of the dead. When a honey-bearer -dies at his post, a victim to his -zeal for the common good, the workers -carefully remove his cold corpse from -the roof where it still clings, clip off the -head and shoulders from the distended -abdomen, and convey their deceased -brother piecemeal, in two detachments, -to the formican cemetery, undisturbed. -If they chose, they might only bury the -front half of their late relation, while they -retained his remaining moiety as an available -honey-bag: but from this cannibal -proceeding ant-etiquette recoils in decent -horror; and the amber globes are -“pulled up galleries, rolled along rooms, -and bowled into the graveyard, along -with the juiceless heads, legs, and other -members.” Such fraternal conduct -would be very creditable to the worker -honey-ants, were it not for a horrid -doubt insinuated by Dr. McCook that -perhaps the insects don't know they -could get at the honey by breaking up -the body of their lamented relative. If -so, their apparent disregard of utilitarian -considerations may really be due not to -their sentimentality but to their hopeless -stupidity.</p> - -<p>The reason why the ants have taken -thus to storing honey in the living bodies -of their own fellows is easy enough to -understand. They want to lay up for -the future, like prudent insects that they -are; but they can't make wax, as the -bees do, and they have not yet evolved -the purely human art of pottery. Consequently—happy -thought—why not tell -off some of our number to act as jars on -behalf of the others? Some of the community -work by going out and gathering -honey; they also serve who only stand -and wait—who receive it from the workers, -and keep it stored up in their own -capacious india-rubber maws till further -notice. So obvious is this plan for converting -ants into animated honey-jars, -that several different kinds of ants in different -parts of the world, belonging to the -most widely distinct families, have independently -hit upon the very self-same device. -Besides the Mexican species, there -is a totally different Australian honey-ant, -and another equally separate in Borneo -and Singapore. This last kind does -not store the honey in the hind part of -the body, technically known as the abdomen, -but in the middle division which -naturalists call the thorax, where it forms -a transparent bladder-like swelling, and -makes the creature look as though it -were suffering with an acute attack of -dropsy. In any case, the life of a honey-bearer -must be singularly uneventful, not -to say dull and monotonous; but no -doubt any small inconvenience in this -respect must be more than compensated -for by the glorious consciousness that -one is sacrificing one's own personal -comfort for the common good of universal -anthood. Perhaps, however, the ants -have not yet reached the Positivist stage, -and may be totally ignorant of the enthusiasm -of formicity.</p> - -<p>Equally curious are the habits and -manners of the harvesting ants, the -species which Solomon seems to have had -specially in view when he advised his -hearers to go to the ant—a piece of advice -which I have also adopted as the -title of the present article, though I by no -means intend thereby to insinuate that -the readers of this magazine ought properly -to be classed as sluggards. These -industrious little creatures abound in -India: they are so small that it takes -eight or ten of them to carry a single -grain of wheat or barley; and yet they -will patiently drag along their big burden -for five hundred or a thousand yards to -the door of their formicary. To prevent -the grain from germinating, they bite off -the embryo root—a piece of animal intelligence -outdone by another species of -ant, which actually allows the process -of budding to begin, so as to produce -sugar, as in malting. After the -last thunderstorms of the monsoon the -little proprietors bring up all the grain -from their granaries to dry in the tropical -sunshine. The quantity of grain -stored up by the harvesting ants is often -so large that the hair-splitting Jewish -casuists of the Mishna have seriously -discussed the question whether it belongs -to the landowner or may lawfully be appropriated -by the gleaners. “They do -not appear,” says Sir John Lubbock, -“to have considered the rights of the -ants.” Indeed our duty towards insects -is a question which seems hitherto -to have escaped the notice of all moral -philosophers. Even Mr. Herbert -Spencer, the prophet of individualism, -has never taken exception to our gross -disregard of the proprietary rights of -bees in their honey, or of silkworms in -their cocoons. There are signs, however, -that the obtuse human conscience -is awakening in this respect; for when -Dr. Loew suggested to bee-keepers the -desirability of testing the commercial -value of honey-ants, as rivals to the bee, -Dr. McCook replied that “the sentiment -against the use of honey thus taken -from living insects, which is worthy of -all respect, would not be easily overcome.”</p> - -<p>There are no harvesting ants in Northern -Europe, though they extend as far -as Syria, Italy, and the Riviera, in which -latter station I have often observed -them busily working. What most careless -observers take for grain in the nests -of English ants are of course really the -cocoons of the pupæ. For many years, -therefore, entomologists were under the -impression that Solomon had fallen -into this popular error, and that when -he described the ant as “gathering her -food in the harvest” and “preparing -her meat in the summer,” he was speaking -rather as a poet than as a strict -naturalist. Later observations, however, -have vindicated the general accuracy -of the much-married king by -showing that true harvesting ants do -actually occur in Syria, and that they -lay by stores for the winter in the very -way stated by that early entomologist, -whose knowledge of “creeping things” -is specially enumerated in the long list -of his universal accomplishments.</p> - -<p>Dr. Lincecum of Texan fame has -even improved upon Solomon by his -discovery of those still more interesting -and curious creatures, the agricultural -ants of Texas. America is essentially a -farming country, and the agricultural -ants are born farmers. They make regular -clearings around their nests, and on -these clearings they allow nothing to -grow except a particular kind of grain, -known as ant-rice. Dr. Lincecum maintains -that the tiny farmers actually sow -and cultivate the ant-rice. Dr. McCook, -on the other hand, is of opinion that the -rice sows itself, and that the insects' -part is limited to preventing any other -plants or weeds from encroaching on the -appropriated area. In any case, be they -squatters or planters, it is certain that -the rice, when ripe, is duly harvested, -and that it is, to say the least, encouraged -by the ants, to the exclusion of -all other competitors. “After the maturing -and harvesting of the seed,” says -Dr. Lincecum, “the dry stubble is cut -away and removed from the pavement, -which is thus left fallow until the ensuing -autumn, when the same species of -grass, and in the same circle, appears -again, and receives the same agricultural -care as did the previous crop.” Sir -John Lubbock, indeed, goes so far as to -say that the three stages of human progress—the -hunter, the herdsman, and -the agriculturist—are all to be found -among various species of existing ants.</p> - -<p>The Saüba ants of tropical America -carry their agricultural operations a step -further. Dwelling in underground nests, -they sally forth upon the trees, and cut -out of the leaves large round pieces, -about as big as a shilling. These pieces -they drop upon the ground, where another -detachment is in waiting to convey -them to the galleries of the nest. There -they store enormous quantities of these -round pieces, which they allow to decay -in the dark, so as to form a sort of miniature -mushroom bed. On the mouldering -vegetable heap they have thus piled -up, they induce a fungus to grow, and -with this fungus they feed their young -grubs during their helpless infancy. -Mr. Belt, the “Naturalist in Nicaragua,” -found that native trees suffered far less -from their depredations than imported -ones. The ants hardly touched the local -forests, but they stripped young plantations -of orange, coffee, and mango trees -stark naked. He ingeniously accounts -for this curious fact by supposing that an -internecine struggle has long been going -on in the countries inhabited by the Saübas -between the ants and the forest trees. -Those trees that best resisted the ants, -owing either to some unpleasant taste or -to hardness of foliage have in the long -run survived destruction; but those -which were suited for the purpose of the -ants have been reduced to nonentity, -while the ants in turn were getting slowly -adapted to attack other trees. In -this way almost all the native trees have -at last acquired some special means of -protection against the ravages of the -leaf-cutters; so that they immediately -fall upon all imported and unprotected -kinds as their natural prey. This ingenious -and wholly satisfactory explanation -must of course go far to console the -Brazilian planters for the frequent loss -of their orange and coffee crops.</p> - -<p>Mr. Alfred Russel Wallace, the co-discoverer -of the Darwinian theory -(whose honors he waived with rare -generosity in favor of the older and -more distinguished naturalist), tells a -curious story about the predatory habits -of these same Saübas. On one occasion, -when he was wandering about in search -of specimens on the Rio Negro, he -bought a peck of rice, which was tied up, -Indian fashion, in the local bandanna of -the happy plantation slave. At night -he left his rice incautiously on the bench -of the hut where he was sleeping; and -next morning the Saübas had riddled the -handkerchief like a sieve, and carried -away a gallon of the grain for their own -felonious purposes. The underground -galleries which they dig can often be -traced for hundreds of yards; and Mr. -Hamlet Clark even asserts that in one -case they have tunnelled under the bed -of a river where it is a quarter of a -mile wide. This beats Brunel on his own -ground into the proverbial cocked hat, -both for depth and distance.</p> - -<p>Within doors, in the tropics, ants are -apt to put themselves obtrusively forward -in a manner little gratifying to any except -the enthusiastically entomological -mind. The winged females, after their -marriage flight, have a disagreeable habit -of flying in at the open doors and windows -at lunch time, settling upon the -table like the Harpies in the Æneid, and -then quietly shuffling off their wings one -at a time, by holding them down against -the table-cloth with one leg, and running -away vigorously with the five others. -As soon as they have thus disembarassed -themselves of their superfluous members, -they proceed to run about over the lunch -as if the house belonged to them, and -to make a series of experiments upon -the edible qualities of the different dishes. -One doesn't so much mind their -philosophical inquiries into the nature -of the bread or even the meat; but -when they come to drowning themselves -by dozens, in the pursuit of knowledge, -in the soup and the sherry, one feels -bound to protest energetically against -the spirit of martyrdom by which they -are too profoundly animated. That is -one of the slight drawbacks of the -realms of perpetual summer: in the poets -you see only one side of the picture—the -palms, the orchids, the humming-birds, -the great trailing lianas; in practical -life you see the reverse side—the -thermometer at 98°, the tepid drinking-water, -the prickly heat, the perpetual -languor, the endless shoals of aggressive -insects. A lady of my acquaintance, indeed, -made a valuable entomological -collection in her own dining-room, by -the simple process of consigning to pillboxes -all the moths and flies and beetles -that settled upon the mangoes and star-apples -in the course of dessert.</p> - -<p>Another objectionable habit of the -tropical ants, viewed practically, is their -total disregard of vested interests in the -case of house-property. Like Mr. George -and his communistic friends, they disbelieve -entirely in the principle of private -rights in real estate. They will eat -their way through the beams of your -house till there is only a slender core of -solid wood left to support the entire -burden. I have taken down a rafter in -my own house in Jamaica, originally 18 -inches thick each way, with a sound circular -centre of no more than 6 inches in -diameter, upon which all the weight -necessarily fell. With the material extracted -from the wooden beams they -proceed to add insult to injury by building -long covered galleries right across the -ceiling of your drawing-room. As may -be easily imagined, these galleries do -not tend to improve the appearance of -the ceiling; and it becomes necessary to -form a Liberty and Property Defence -League for the protection of one's personal -interests against the insect enemy. -I have no objection to ants building -galleries on their own freehold, or even -to their nationalising the land in their -native forests; but I do object strongly -to their unwarrantable intrusion upon -the domain of private life. Expostulation -and active warfare, however, are -equally useless. The carpenter-ant has -no moral sense, and is not amenable -either to kindness or blows. On one occasion, -when a body of these intrusive -creatures had constructed an absurdly -conspicuous brown gallery straight across -the ceiling of my drawing-room, I determined -to declare open war against -them, and getting my black servant to -bring in the steps and a mop, I proceeded -to demolish the entire gallery just -after breakfast. It was about twenty -feet long, as well as I can remember, and -perhaps an inch in diameter. At one -o'clock I returned to lunch. My black -servant pointed, with a broad grin on -his intelligent features, to the wooden -ceiling. I looked up: in those three -hours the carpenter-ants had reconstructed -the entire gallery, and were -doubtless mocking me at their ease, with -their uplifted antennæ, under that safe -shelter. I retired at once from the unequal -contest. It was clearly impossible -to go on knocking down a fresh gallery -every three hours of the day or night -throughout a whole lifetime.</p> - -<p>Ants, says Mr. Wallace, without one -touch of satire, “force themselves upon -the attention of everyone who visits the -tropics.” They do, indeed, and that -most pungently; if by no other method, -at least by the simple and effectual one -of stinging. The majority of ants in -every nest are of course neuters, or -workers, that is to say, strictly speaking, -undeveloped females, incapable of laying -eggs. But they still retain the ovipositor, -which is converted into a sting, -and supplied with a poisonous liquid to -eject afterwards into the wound. So -admirably adapted to its purpose is this -beautiful provision of nature, that some -tropical ants can sting with such violence -as to make your leg swell and confine -you for some days to your room; while -cases have even been known in which the -person attacked has fainted with pain, -or had a serious attack of fever in consequence. -It is not every kind of ant, -however, that can sting; a great many -can only bite with their little hard horny -jaws, and then eject a drop of formic -poison afterwards into the hole caused -by the bite. The distinction is a delicate -physiological one, not much appreciated -by the victims of either mode of -attack. The perfect females can also -sting, but not, of course, the males, who -are poor, wretched, useless creatures, -only good as husbands for the community, -and dying off as soon as they have -performed their part in the world—another -beautiful provision, which saves -the workers the trouble of killing them -off, as bees do with drones after the -marriage flight of the queen bee.</p> - -<p>The blind driver-ants of West Africa -are among the very few species that render -any service to man, and that, of -course, only incidentally. Unlike most -other members of their class, the driver-ants -have no settled place of residence; -they are vagabonds and wanderers upon -the face of the earth, formican tramps, -blind beggars, who lead a gipsy existence, -and keep perpetually upon the move, -smelling their way cautiously from one -camping-place to another. They march -by night, or on cloudy days, like wise -tropical strategists, and never expose -themselves to the heat of the day in -broad sunshine, as though they were no -better than the mere numbered British -Tommy Atkins at Coomassie or in the -Soudan. They move in vast armies across -country, driving everything before -them as they go; for they belong to the -stinging division, and are very voracious -in their personal habits. Not only do -they eat up the insects in their line of -march, but they fall even upon larger -creatures and upon big snakes, which -they attack first in the eyes, the most -vulnerable portion. When they reach a -negro village the inhabitants turn out -<i lang="fr">en masse</i>, and run away, exactly as if the -visitors were English explorers or brave -Marines, bent upon retaliating for the -theft of a knife by nobly burning down -King Tom's town or King Jumbo's -capital. Then the negroes wait in the -jungle till the little black army has passed -on, after clearing out the huts by the -way of everything eatable. When they -return they find their calabashes and -saucepans licked clean, but they also -find every rat, mouse, lizard, cockroach, -gecko, and beetle completely cleared out -from the whole village. Most of them -have cut and run at the first approach -of the drivers; of the remainder, a few -blanched and neatly-picked skeletons -alone remain to tell the tale.</p> - -<p>As I wish to be considered a veracious -historian, I will not retail the further -strange stories that still find their way -into books of natural history about the -manners and habits of these blind marauders. -They cross rivers, the West -African gossips declare, by a number of -devoted individuals flinging themselves -first into the water as a living bridge, -like so many six-legged Marcus Curtiuses, -while over their drowning bodies the -heedless remainder march in safety to -the other side. If the story is not true, -it is at least well invented; for the ant-commonwealth -everywhere carries to the -extremest pitch the old Roman doctrine -of the absolute subjection of the individual -to the State. So exactly is this the -case that in some species there are a few -large, overgrown, lazy ants in each nest, -which do no work themselves, but accompany -the workers on their expeditions; -and the sole use of these idle -mouths seems to be to attract the attention -of birds and other enemies, and so -distract it from the useful workers, the -mainstay of the entire community. It -is almost as though an army, marching -against a tribe of cannibals, were to -place itself in the centre of a hollow -square formed of all the fattest people -in the country, whose fine condition and -fitness for killing might immediately -engross the attention of the hungry enemy. -Ants, in fact, have, for the most -part, already reached the goal set before -us as a delightful one by most current -schools of socialist philosophers, in which -the individual is absolutely sacrificed in -every way to the needs of the community.</p> - -<p>The most absurdly human, however, -among all the tricks and habits of ants -are their well-known cattle-farming and -slaveholding instincts. Everybody has -heard, of course, how they keep the -common rose-blight as milch cows, and -suck from them the sweet honey-dew. -But everybody, probably, does not yet -know the large number of insects -which they herd in one form or another -as domesticated animals. Man has, at -most, some twenty or thirty such, -including cows, sheep, horses, donkeys, -camels, llamas, alpacas, reindeer, -dogs, cats, canaries, pigs, fowl, ducks, -geese, turkeys, and silkworms. But -ants have hundreds and hundreds, -some of them kept obviously for purposes -of food; others apparently as -pets; and yet others again, as has been -plausibly suggested, by reason of superstition -or as objects of worship. There -is a curious blind beetle which inhabits -ants' nests, and is so absolutely dependent -upon its hosts for support that it has -even lost the power of feeding itself. It -never quits the nest, but the ants bring -it in food and supply it by putting the -nourishment actually into its mouth. -But the beetle, in return, seems to secrete -a sweet liquid (or it may even be a stimulant -like beer, or a narcotic like tobacco) -in a tuft of hairs near the bottom of the -hard wing-cases, and the ants often lick -this tuft with every appearance of satisfaction -and enjoyment. In this case, -and in many others, there can be no -doubt that the insects are kept for the -sake of food or some other advantage -yielded by them.</p> - -<p>But there are other instances of insects -which haunt ants' nests, which it is far -harder to account for on any hypothesis -save that of superstitious veneration. -There is a little weevil that runs about -by hundreds in the galleries of English -ants, in and out among the free citizens, -making itself quite at home in their -streets and public places, but as little noticed -by the ants themselves as dogs are in -our own cities. Then, again, there is a -white woodlouse, something like the -common little armadillo, but blind from -having lived so long underground, which -walks up and down the lanes and alleys -of antdom, without ever holding any -communication of any sort with its hosts -and neighbors. In neither case has Sir -John Lubbock ever seen an ant take the -slightest notice of the presence of these -strange fellow-lodgers. “One might almost -imagine,” he says, “that they had the cap -of invisibility.” Yet it is quite clear -that the ants deliberately sanction the -residence of the weevils and woodlice in -their nests, for any unauthorised intruder -would immediately be set upon and -massacred outright. Sir John Lubbock -suggests that they may perhaps be tolerated -as scavengers; or, again, it is -possible that they may prey upon the -eggs or larvæ of some of the parasites to -whose attacks the ants are subject. In -the first case, their use would be similar -to that of the wild dogs in Constantinople -or the common black John-crow vultures -in tropical America: in the second case, -they would be about equivalent to our -own cats or to the hedgehog often put in -farmhouse kitchens to keep down cockroaches.</p> - -<p>The crowning glory of owning slaves, -which many philosophic Americans (before -the war) showed to be the highest -and noblest function of the most advanced -humanity, has been attained by more -than one variety of anthood. Our great -English horse-ant is a moderate slave-holder; -but the big red ant of Southern -Europe carries the domestic institution -many steps further. It makes regular -slave-raids upon the nests of the small -brown ants, and carries off the young in -their pupa condition. By-and-by the -brown ants hatch out in the strange nest, -and, never having known any other life -except that of slavery, accommodate -themselves to it readily enough. The -red ant, however, is still only an occasional -slaveowner; if necessary, he can -get along by himself, without the aid of -his little brown servants. Indeed, there -are free states and slave states of red -ants side by side with one another, as of -old in Maryland and Pennsylvania: in -the first, the red ants do their work -themselves, like mere vulgar Ohio farmers; -in the second, they get their work -done for them by their industrious little -brown servants, like the aristocratic first -families of Virginia before the earthquake -of emancipation.</p> - -<p>But there are other degraded ants, -whose life-history may be humbly presented -to the consideration of the Anti-Slavery -Society, as speaking more eloquently -than any other known fact for the -demoralising effect of slaveowning upon -the slaveholders themselves. The Swiss -rufescent ant is a species so long habituated -to rely entirely upon the services -of slaves that it is no longer able to -manage its own affairs when deprived by -man of its hereditary bondsmen. It has -lost entirely the art of constructing a -nest; it can no longer tend its own -young, whom it leaves entirely to the -care of negro nurses; and its bodily -structure even has changed, for the jaws -have lost their teeth, and have been converted -into mere nippers, useful only as -weapons of war. The rufescent ant, in -fact, is a purely military caste, which has -devoted itself entirely to the pursuit of -arms, leaving every other form of activity -to its slaves and dependents. Officers -of the old school will be glad to -learn that this military insect is dressed, -if not in scarlet, at any rate in very decent -red, and that it refuses to be bothered -in any way with questions of transport -or commissariat. If the community -changes its nest, the masters are -carried on the backs of their slaves to -the new position, and the black ants have -to undertake the entire duty of foraging -and bringing in stores of supply for their -gentlemanly proprietors. Only when -war is to be made upon neighboring nests -does the thin red line form itself into -long file for active service. Nothing -could be more perfectly aristocratic than -the views of life entertained and acted -upon by these distinguished slaveholders.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, the picture has its -reverse side, exhibiting clearly the weak -points of the slaveholding system. The -rufescent ant has lost even the very power -of feeding itself. So completely dependent -is each upon his little black -valet for daily bread, that he cannot so -much as help himself to the food that is -set before him. Hüber put a few slaveholders -into a box with some of their -own larvæ and pupæ, and a supply of -honey, in order to see what they would -do with them. Appalled at the novelty -of the situation, the slaveholders seemed -to come to the conclusion that something -must be done; so they began -carrying the larvæ about aimlessly in -their mouths, and rushing up and down -in search of the servants. After a while, -however, they gave it up and came to the -conclusion that life under such circumstances -was clearly intolerable. They -never touched the honey, but resigned -themselves to their fate like officers and -gentlemen. In less than two days, half -of them had died of hunger, rather than -taste a dinner which was not supplied to -them by a properly constituted footman. -Admiring their heroism or pitying their -incapacity, Hüber, at last, gave them -just one slave between them all. The -plucky little negro, nothing daunted by -the gravity of the situation, set to work -at once, dug a small nest, gathered together -the larvæ, helped several pupæ -out of the cocoon, and saved the lives of -the surviving slaveowners. Other naturalists -have tried similar experiments, -and always with the same result. The -slaveowners will starve in the midst of -plenty rather than feed themselves without -attendance. Either they cannot or -will not put the food into their own -mouths with their own mandibles.</p> - -<p>There are yet other ants, such as the -workerless <i>Anergates</i>, in which the degradation -of slaveholding has gone yet -further. These wretched creatures are -the formican representatives of those -Oriental despots who are no longer even -warlike, but are sunk in sloth and luxury, -and pass their lives in eating bang or -smoking opium. Once upon a time, Sir -John Lubbock thinks, the ancestors of -<i>Anergates</i> were marauding slaveowners, -who attacked and made serfs of other -ants. But gradually they lost not only -their arts but even their military prowess, -and were reduced to making war by -stealth instead of openly carrying off -their slaves in fair battle. It seems -probable that they now creep into a nest -of the far more powerful slave ants, -poison or assassinate the queen, and -establish themselves by sheer usurpation -in the queenless nest. “Gradually,” says -Sir John Lubbock, “even their bodily -force dwindled away under the enervating -influence to which they had subjected -themselves, until they sank to their -present degraded condition—weak in -body and mind, few in numbers, and -apparently nearly extinct, the miserable -representatives of far superior ancestors, -maintaining a precarious existence as -contemptible parasites of their former -slaves.” One may observe in passing, -that these wretched do-nothings cannot -have been the ants which Solomon -commended to the favorable consideration -of the sluggard; though it is curious -that the text was never pressed into -the service of defence for the peculiar -institution by the advocates of slavery in -the South, who were always most anxious -to prove the righteousness of their -cause by most sure and certain warranty -of Holy Scripture.—<cite>Cornhill Magazine.</cite></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="LITERARY_NOTICES">LITERARY NOTICES.</h2> - - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">Episodes of My Second Life.</span> By Antonio -Gallenga (Luigi Mariotti). English and -American Experiences. Philadelphia: <i>J. B. -Lippincott & Co.</i></p></blockquote> - -<p>The autobiographer in this case (for the last -year has been singularly rich in interesting -autobiography) is not in any degree, at least for -Americans, an eminent and well-known personage. -But, in spite of this, his record of experience -and vicissitude is full of interest, -and we may almost say fascinating. His -threescore years and ten have been crowded -with events which, if not in themselves strikingly -dramatic, are at least striking in the -telling, for he has all the art of an accomplished -<i lang="fr">raconteur</i>, simple, direct and vigorous -in style, and knowing perfectly when to glide -over with little stress, when to put on his color -with a vigorous and lavish brush. Mr. Gallenga -(this being his true name) was in the -latter part of his life a leading correspondent -of the London <cite>Times</cite>, having achieved a high -reputation in this direction prior to the days -of Dr. Russell and Archibald Forbes. His -work and position brought him into confidential -relations with many of the most important -men and events of Europe from 1840 -to 1875, and he describes these in a racy -fashion which will command attention, we -think.</p> - -<p>Mr. Gallenga as a youth of twenty took part -in the Italian struggle for liberty in 1831, under -the name of Luigi Mariotti. It was one of -those brief episodes of revolution with which -Italy was convulsed so often before the great -final dead-lock came, which drove the hated -<i>Sedischi</i> from her soil. The young patriot -was for a short time in prison, but finally -escaped, and lived for a while as a tutor in -Tangiers. Thence he came to America, to -carve a career for himself, and located himself -in Boston in 1836. Here he speedily found -employment as teacher, lecturer and writer, -and was fortunate in securing the friendship -and goodwill of the leading people of the city. -Boston was then without dispute the only -literary centre of the country, in spite of a -few brilliant names in New York, and Sig. -Gallenga seems to have found congenial employment -and companionship from the outset. -His reminiscences of such men as Edward -Everett, Fields, Ticknor, Prescott and others -are entertaining, and his sketch of the whole -entourage of Boston society is given with a -refreshing <i lang="fr">naïveté</i>, as well as with graceful -vivacity. Among the minor incidents which -lend humor to the book is the author's experience -with a young American beauty, with -whom he was in love, and whom in his impulsive -and passionate Italian way, he clasped -in his arms and kissed. He professes himself -highly astonished because the damsel was -greatly enraged and ordered him from the -house, ending the acquaintance then and there. -After spending four years in America under -unusually agreeable conditions, Mr. Gallenga, -who was still known under his pseudonym of -Mariotti, took ship for England, and bade a -final farewell to the country of which he -speaks in such cordial and even affectionate -terms. Settling in London good luck still -followed him. He secured introductions to -prominent persons, was accorded recognition -at once, and became acquainted with many -of the people, both literary and otherwise, best -worth knowing in England. A great interest -in Italian affairs and literature was then the -rage, and Mr. Gallenga, who was a scholar -and an able writer, found ample opportunity -and occupation in contributing to the magazines -and reviews on subjects which he discussed -<i lang="fr">con amore</i>. A book which he published -gave him repute beyond that of a mere -fugitive writer, and he was fortunate in -making literature lucrative as well as honorable. -His gossip about prominent people -and occurrences in London forty years ago, is -very entertaining, and he shows as much skill -in throwing light on the English life of that -day as he had done in describing America. -Twenty years of literary and professorial -work, were frequently broken up by long residences -in Italy, during which he sat for a time -in the Italian Parliament, and helped to pave -the way for that consolidation of Italian interests -which at last led to Solferino and -Magenta, and the grand result of Italian -unity. He seems to have been accorded an -important place in the councils and deliberations -of his nation, and to have been an important -agent in bringing about those relations -which freed Italy from foreign domination. -In 1859 our author became connected with -the <cite>Times</cite> as correspondent, and since that -time has been employed on many of the most -delicate and important commissions. He -represented them in the Franco-Italian-Austrian -War, and succeeded Dr. Russell at the -time of our late civil conflict; was sent repeatedly -to every part of Europe, and, for a -good while had a roving commission to write -whatever he saw worth reporting and discussing, -particularly on the peoples and events -of the Mediterranean seaboard countries, from -the straits of Gibraltar to the Dardanelles. -Mr. Gallenga tells his story (and he has much -to tell) with the vivacity of an Italian and -with the ability of a trained man-of-letters. -A number of books, mostly on historical and -political subjects, have given him a recognized -literary place aside from mere journalism, -and he reviews a long, diversified and interesting -career with an interest and satisfaction -which he fully communicates to his readers. -We have rarely read a volume more packed -with interesting matter, narrated with the -skill which comes of long training.</p> - - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">A Historical Reference Book, comprising -a Chronological Table of Universal -History, a Chronological Dictionary -of Universal History, a Biographical -Dictionary with Geographical Notes -for the Use of Students, Teachers and -Readers.</span> By Louis Heilprin. New York: -<i>D. Appleton & Co.</i></p></blockquote> - -<p>The plan adopted in this handy reference -book of historical dates and events has been -to deal separately with the events of different -countries, and an excellent system has been -followed with great thoroughness. The author -is very well known as an industrious and -painstaking scholar, the results of whose work -can be depended on. About many historical -dates there is much confusion, and the difficulties -in coming to a conclusion are great. Mr. -Heilprin very modestly states the obstacles in -the way of perfect accuracy, and convinces the -reader that, if blunders have been made, they -are such as are absolutely unavoidable in the -dire chaos which envelops many of even the -most important facts of history so far as certainty -of year is concerned. We may be sure -that every caution and pains have been taken -by the author. In many cases where it is impossible -to reach an absolute statement, two -dates are given, the preferable one stated first. -Such a book as this is of the greatest convenience, -and one that a well-informed or -studious man can hardly afford to be without. -A remarkable seeming omission, however, -is the non-assignment of date to the Christian -era, or any reference to the life and career -that gave it significance. The studious avoidal -seems significant, but we may explain it on the -theory that the absolute date of Christ's birth -cannot be absolutely fixed within several years. -On the whole, indeed, with this one exception -(perhaps an unavoidable one) the compilation -appears to be all such a work should.</p> - - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">Bermuda: An Idyll of the Summer Islands.</span> -By Julia C. R. Dorr. New York: -<i>Charles Scribner's Sons</i>.</p></blockquote> - -<p>The germ of this book was in an article -called “Bermudan Days” published in the <cite>Atlantic -Monthly</cite> for December, 1883, and we -find the paper incorporated with the work. -The volume is a brightly written account of a -vacation of three months in the Bermudas, -one of the most charming sanitariums of our -western seas. So much has been written -about the pleasant lotos-lands of the North -and South Antilles, that no new facts can be -now told about them. But the old background -of cloudless skies, summer seas, and -balmy ocean breezes, which make such places -as the Bahamas and the Bermudas earthly -paradises, never get tedious or dull when seen -and felt through the medium of a fresh and -lively nature. In winter time especially, when -the bleak cold of the north starts the imagination -travelling toward summer climates, and -those condemned to stay in cold weather, sigh -for the delights of the more fortunate voyager, -such books as the one before us make -very pleasant reading. The author describes -the attractions of Bermudan life: its roses and -sunshine, its novel sights and sounds, the picturesque -aspects of a primitive, contented, lazy -population, delightful sails over beautiful seas, -and all the episodes of the sojourn with the -keenest enjoyment, and a skilful literary -touch. The very essence of an agreeable book -of this kind is an utter lack of anything like -fine writing. Mrs. Dorr certainly shows good -taste in this matter, though one might fancy -the temptation would be great to try what is -so often called word-painting. She tells us -what she has to say, and she has many good -things to tell us, too, in a lively, racy, picturesque, -but utterly unpretentious way. Of -course we do not expect anyone to write a -book about the Bermudas, without giving us -something of the oft-repeated tale of its history -and traditions; but Mrs. Dorr has spared -us from overmuch, and does not weary the -attention. The enjoyable portion of the work -is the personal impressions and experiences of -herself and her party. As every traveller or -tourist with a literary taste, finds it essential, -nowadays, to serve the sight-seeing up in -book form, we can only wish that more of -them had the good taste and lively nature of -the present author.</p> - - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">Elements of Zoology.</span> (<i>Appleton's Science -Text-Books.</i>) By C. F. Holder, Fellow of -the New York Academy of Sciences, etc., -and T. B. Holder, A.M., Curator Zoology, -American Museum of Natural History. New -York: <i>D. Appleton & Co.</i></p></blockquote> - -<p>This new manual of one of the most interesting -branches of science, is equally adapted -for the school or for family reading. The object -of the authors, which is to present in plain -and concise language and in the light of the -latest research and investigation, the life history -of the various groups making up the animal -kingdom has been well done. The best -authorities have been followed. The authors, -too, have introduced a great deal of matter of -a descriptive and narrative matter, such as -will thoroughly interest their young readers, -such as the growth of the coral, nest-building -fishes, luminous animals, animal electricians, -hibernation, mimicry, etc., things which make -certain phases of science almost like a fairy -tale. The dry classification of science has but -little attraction except to the professional scientist, -and the authors have avoided this rock -of dreariness as far as possible. The aim of -the book seems to be largely to encourage the -reader to become an original investigator, and -to use his eyes and ears intelligently in observing -the order of animated nature. The -cuts are nicely and cleanly made, and the volume -is very neat, though gotten up for service -and not for ornament.</p> - - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">The Reality of Religion.</span> By Henry J. -Van Dyke, Jr., D.D. New York: <i>Charles -Scribner's Sons</i>.</p></blockquote> - -<p>In this day of scepticism without, and dry-rot -within, it well becomes the champions of -the Christian faith to enter the lists with the -keenest weapons furnished for the fight. Dr. -Van Dyke argues, not from the standpoint of -the dialectician, or from that of the defender -of historical Christianity. It is the personal -argument drawn from needs of human nature -which he has here elaborated. He says: “We -do not sneer at the dogmas of theology. They -are certainly as important as the dogmas of -science. We do not despise the questions of -ritual. They are at least of equal consequence -with the questions of social order. But religion -is infinitely beyond all these. It is -more vital and more profound. It does not -appeal to the intellect alone. It is not satisfied -with the conclusions of logic. Nor does it -rest at ease upon the æsthetic sense. It -reaches down into the very depths of the living, -throbbing, human heart, and stirs a longing -which nothing outward and formal can -ever fill—<em>the longing for personal fellowship -with God</em>.” It is this need of religion in the -soul as essential to satisfy its truest and deepest -longing which furnishes the keynote of the -argument. He insists that religion is as absolute -a reality, which we can feel and know in -our spiritual life, as is the bread we eat to sustain -our physical life. Dr. Van Dyke considers -the subject under the heads of “A Real -Religion Necessary;” “The Living God;” -“The Living Soul” “The Living Word;” -“The Living Sacrifice;” and “The Living -Christ.” In the last, of course, we find the -key-stone and cap, as well, of the logic of his -thesis. The work will give comfort and satisfaction -to many Christian souls, and is not unworthy -of Dr. Van Dyke as an accomplished -stylist. Chastened, yet glowing, subdued, yet -strong, the book is one which should have a -large number of readers among those devoted -to the interests of the Church of Christ.</p> - - -<blockquote> - -<p><span class="smcap">The Enchiridion of Wit: The Best Specimens -of English Conversational Wit.</span> -Philadelphia: <i>J. B. Lippincott & Co.</i></p></blockquote> - -<p>This collection has aimed to avoid both the -characteristics of the jest-book or of table-talk. -Its place is between the two, being compiled -from the annals of conversation, and comprising -at the same time only those jests and -stories which possess the stamp of wit as distinguished -from humor or drollery. That the -collection is good, one needs only to read the -pleasant prefatory essay, which is very gracefully -and brightly written, to feel sure that the -taste and knowledge of the writer or editor -have been well displayed in his work of selection. -It goes without saying that many of the -anecdotes are old and familiar. Many of the -very best things ever said in the world, of -course, are what we term “Joe Millers.” -That they should be otherwise, would argue but -bad taste on the part of our predecessors. But -our present author has gleaned in many an outlying -field as well as in the well travelled -road, and gives us very satisfactory showing -for his literary excursus in new directions. -Some of the stories in the book we do not remember -to have seen before in any similar -work.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - - - - - - -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="FOREIGN_LITERARY_NOTES">FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> monument to Virgil at Pietole (which -is supposed to be the Andes of the Romans), -near Mantua, was unveiled lately.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> death of a popular Russian novelist, B. -M. Markievich, on the 30th of last month, is -reported from St. Petersburg.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> original autographs of the love-letters -addressed by John Keats to Miss Fanny Brawne -in the years 1819-20 will be sold by Messrs. -Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge the first week in -March, together with six unpublished autograph -letters of Charles Lamb.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">A pamphlet</span> by Madame E. Coulombe is announced -for immediate publication by Mr. Elliot -Stock. This lady was associated with -Madame Blavatsky for some years, and in this -<i>brochure</i> tells what she heard and saw of Madame -Blavatsky and the Theosophists with -whom she came in contact in India and elsewhere.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">Trinity College</span>, Dublin, is about to start -a new paper with the title <cite>The Dublin University -Review</cite>. The first number will appear on -February 1st, and the issue will be bi-monthly, -except during the long vacation. The paper -will contain literary articles as well as university -news of every description, and will be -owned by a limited liability company.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Incorporated Society of Authors propose -to send a deputation to the Prime Minister -to urge the codification of the Copyright -Acts, which are fourteen in number. Several -of the chief publishers, not of books only, but -also of prints and music, will be asked to join.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">A conference</span> of elementary teachers, international -in its character, has been summoned -to meet at Havre. This is the first conference -of the kind which has been organized in France, -and it is expected that the Government will -make a grant in aid of the expenses.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> article on Polish history and literature -in the next volume of the “Encyclopædia Britannica” -will be from the pen of Mr. Morfill, -who will also contribute the articles on the -Emperor Paul, and on Peter the Great.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Lowe</span>, correspondent of the <cite>Times</cite> at -Berlin, is engaged in writing a biography of -Prince Bismarck, which will appear next spring.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">M. Schlumberger</span>, the well known numismatist, -and M. Benoist have lately been elected -members of the Académie des Inscriptions et -Belles-Lettres.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">An</span> exhibition is to be held in the Imperial -Library at Constantinople of Turkish writing, -bookbinding, and illumination, for which prizes -are to be given.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">One</span> of the most important scholastic reforms -now in progress in Turkey is that relating to -the study of the Arabic language. As now -conducted, this study absorbs years in a desultory -way which might be applied to the acquisition -of other branches of knowledge. With -the view to abridge the course of study without -impairing its quality, the Sultan has determined -on founding a special medresseh for teaching -Arabic on a scientific basis, and for this purpose -has purchased from the funds of the civil -list the property of the Guedik Pasha Theatre -at Constantinople.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> long lost and often found commentary on -the “Atharva-veda” seems at last on its way -to publication. The whole of the commentary -has not yet been found, but two-thirds of it are -now in the hands of the pandits of Poona, who -will prepare a critical publication of both text -and commentary. The text of the “Atharva-veda” -was published in the early days of Vedic -scholarship by Roth and Whitney, and the latter -scholar has lately published a very useful -index.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">We</span> are enabled to state, says the <cite>Athenæum</cite>, -that a popular edition of Her Majesty's recent -work, “More Leaves from the Journal of a Life -in the Highlands,” is in the press, and will be -ready for publication in the course of a few -weeks. The new edition will contain all the -woodcut illustrations which appeared in the -original edition, together with wood-engravings -of the portraits, and will be uniform with -the popular edition of the Queen's previous -work, “Leaves from the Journal of our Life in -the Highlands.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. Alexander Del Mar</span>, according to the -<cite>Academy</cite>, formerly Director of the Bureau of -Statistics of the United States, whose <cite>History -of the Precious Metals</cite> was published in 1880, -has in the press a work on <cite>The History of -Money from the Earliest Times to the Middle -Ages</cite>, upon which he has been occupied for -many years past. It will shortly be published -by Messrs. Bell & Sons.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">From</span> the <cite>Academy</cite> we quote the following -amusing paragraph:</p> - -<p>“The <cite>Magazin für die Literatur des In- und -Auslandes</cite> continues to be unfortunate when it -meddles with the English language. Many of -our readers will be acquainted with Victor -Scheffel's charming German song—referring, -we believe, to Heinrich von Ofterdingen—which -has the refrain, 'Der Heini von Steier -ist wieder im Land.' The <cite>Magazin</cite> of January -10 publishes an 'English' translation of this -poem, by Johanna Baltz, from which we quote -the following specimen:—</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">“'To finches and swallows tells sweet nightingale:</div> - <div class="verse">“The song of a violin fills woodland and vale!</div> - <div class="verse">Ye twitt'ners, ye singers, now silence your cant—</div> - <div class="verse">Hark, Heini von Steier returned to his land!”</div> -</div><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">“'Shoemaker is waving his furcap in glee:</div> - <div class="verse">“The merciful heaven forgets neven me!</div> - <div class="verse">Now shoes will be costly, soleleather gets scant—</div> - <div class="verse">Hark, Heini von Steier returned to his land.“'”</div> -</div></div></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> eighty-ninth birthday of Dr. Ranke (December -21st) has excited interest throughout -Germany, and elicited many expressions of the -respect universally felt for him. The strength -of the venerable historian defies the increase of -years, and he works daily at his home in Berlin -on the history which he hopes to complete.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">Mr. C. E. Pascoe</span> has issued a prospectus -on the publication of English books in America. -He says in effect that, though the lack of -international copyright is one reason why English -authors derive but little profit from the sale -of their works in America, another and graver -reason is, that as a class, they are in ignorance -of the means for getting the best out of existing -conditions. The usual method of procedure is -for the English publisher to make proposals to -an American publisher, or for the representative -of an American firm in London to submit -proposals to his principals in the United States. -Mr. Pascoe points to the danger of losing a lucrative -sale that this method entails. His prospectus, -which is accompanied by letters from -American publishers and some well-known -English authors, is worth attention. Mr. Pascoe's -address is 6 Southfields Road, West Hill, -Wandsworth, S. W.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">An</span> early and hitherto unknown Arabic work -has lately been added to the Museum Library. -It is entitled “Kitāb al-Mohabbir”, and contains -various historical notices and traditions -relating to the ancient Arabs and to the time -of Mohammed and his immediate successors. -The author, Abu Sa'id al-Hasan al-Sukkari, -lived in the third century of the Hijrah, and is -well known as one of the earliest editors and -commentators of the old poets, but the present -work appears somehow to have escaped notice; -it is neither mentioned in the Fihrist, nor by -Ibn Khallikan or Soyuti. The two last-named -authors state that Al-Sukkari died <span class="smcap">A.H.</span> 275; -but according to Ibn Kāni' (Leyden Catalogue, -vol. ii. p. 8) he lived on to <span class="smcap">A.H.</span> 290. The present -work would show that the former date is -decidedly wrong; for it contains a brief sketch -of the Abbasides brought down by Al-Sukkari -himself to the accession of Al-Mo'tadid, <i>i.e.</i>, -<span class="smcap">A.H.</span> 279.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">Among</span> other recent additions to the Arabic -collection, the following are especially deserving -of the attention of scholars: the earliest -extant history of the Moslem conquest of -Egypt, Africa, and Spain, by Ibn 'Abd al-Hakam, -who died <span class="smcap">A.H.</span> 257, a twelfth century copy; -“Zubdat al-Tawarikh,” a history of the Seljuk-dynasty, -written shortly after its extinction, -about <span class="smcap">A.H.</span> 620, by Sadr al-Din Abul Hasan -Ali Ibn Abul Fawaris Nasir Husaini, a fine -and apparently unique copy of the thirteenth -century; “Kitab al-Osul,” an extensive and -hitherto unknown work on Arabic grammar -by one of the earliest writers on the subject, -Ibn al-Sarraj, who died <span class="smcap">A.H.</span> 316, handsomely -written, with all vowels, <span class="smcap">A.H.</span> 651; a fine and -valuable copy of the “Makamat al-Hariri,” -written by a grandson of the author, <span class="smcap">A.H.</span> 557 -(<i>i.e.</i>, forty years after Hariri's death), and consequently -earlier than any copy of that standard -work known to exist in European libraries.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> numbers of ladies attending the King's -College classes at Observatory Avenue have -been very high during the term that has just -ended. The entries were nearly 600, which is a -larger number than has been reached since the -first year, 1878, when the classes started, and -the present house hardly affords room for such -numbers.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> is not generally known that the <cite>Times</cite> -attains its hundredth year on the 1st of January, -1885. The prevailing notion is that the -year in which it was founded was 1788, the -truth being that the 940th number of the journal -appeared on the first day in that year. The -mistake is due to confounding a change in the -title with the foundation of the journal. The -actual facts are set forth in an article which -Mr. Fraser Rae contributes to the January -number of the <cite>Nineteenth Century</cite>. Amongst -other things which will attract notice in that -article is a verbatim copy of the inscription on -the tablets affixed in honor of the conduct of -the <cite>Times</cite> in the case of Bogle <i>v.</i> Lawson in -1841, by a committee of bankers and merchants -of the City, in the Royal Exchange, and over -the entrance to the <cite>Times</cite> printing office. As -these tablets are placed where the inscriptions -on them cannot easily be read, and as copies -of these inscriptions are not given in the works -dealing with the City, the copy in the <cite>Nineteenth -Century</cite> is a piece of historical information -which will be novel to most readers.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> last number of <cite>Shakspeariana</cite> contains -the somewhat surprising statement that Prof. -Kuno Fischer is a convert to the Bacon-Shakspere -theory, and will lecture upon it at Heidelberg -this winter. From the same periodical we -copy the following curious paragraph:—</p> - -<p>“A very remarkable discovery has been -placed on record by the Hon. Ignatius Donnelly, -who claims to have proof positive that -Bacon was the author of Shakspere's plays. -This is accomplished by means of a cipher which -Bacon twice describes, whereby one writing -could be infolded and hidden in another. The -words of the hidden story have a definite relation -to the acts and scenes of the plays, which -is determined by counting. Attracted by 'I. -Henry IV.'; II., i., ii., iv., and IV., ii., in -which he found the words 'Francis,' 'Bacon' -(twice), 'Nicholas' (twice), 'Bacon's,' -'son,' 'master,' 'Kings,' 'exchequer,' 'St. -Albans'—the name of Bacon's place of residence—and, -in IV., ii., 'Francis' repeated -twenty times on one page, Mr. Donnelly applied -his key to it, with the following result:—Elizabeth -during the Essex troubles became, -as is known, incensed at the use made of the -play of 'Richard II.,' in which is represented -the deposition and killing of the King; and she -made it one of the points of prosecution which -cost Essex his head, that he had hired the company -of players to which Shakspere belonged -to represent it more than forty times in open -streets and in tavern yards, in order to prepare -the public mind for her own deposition and -murder. History tells us that she caused the -arrest of Haywarde, who wrote a prose narrative -of the deposition of Richard II. and dedicated -it to Essex, and he narrowly escaped a -State prosecution. Mr. Donnelly shows that -at the same time Shakspere was arrested as the -author of the plays; he was threatened with -the torture, and disclosed to the officers of the -Crown the fact that Bacon was the real author -of the plays. Bacon threw himself on the -protection of his uncle, Lord Burleigh, the -great Lord Treasurer, who saved him from exposure -and prosecution, but revealed the truth -to Elizabeth; and this is the explanation of the -fact, that, as long as Elizabeth lived, she kept -Bacon out of office and in poverty.”</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<div class="chapter"></div> -<h2 id="MISCELLANY">MISCELLANY.</h2> - - -<p><span class="smcap">Some Personal Recollections of George -Sand.</span>—The recent unveiling of George Sand's -statue at La Châtre has set people thinking -about her afresh. At no time since “Indiana” -and “Lelia” first revealed the existence of a -new writer of transcendent power, has her -place in French literature, and her influence on -the social problems of the time, and the question -whether her artistic creations will or will -not live, been canvassed with more energy -than during the past few weeks. Some personal -recollections of George Sand given by Mrs. -Ellis, the authoress of “Sylvestra,” may therefore -be of interest: “Above twenty years -ago,” writes Mrs. Ellis, “I spent three days -in a French hotel (at Tours) with George Sand, -without knowing who she was. She puzzled -me all the time, and had in person something -of the same effect on me that her character—attractive -and repulsive—has still. She sat -opposite me at a narrow <i lang="fr">table d'hôte</i>—a tall, -large, strongly-built woman, with features in -proportion to her size. Her eyes were fine, -but her force of appearance was rather physical -than intellectual. It must have been the -brain beneath the strong features which teased -me as it did, to make out to myself who she -could be. She was mature, but in no decline -of force, massive, grave, and restful, with nothing -Gallic about her. The dark hair, eyes, and -tint might have belonged to Italy or Spain, -quite as well as to France, and the bearing, -better. Her dress might have been called -'dowdy.' It was of the type of the travelling -Englishwoman, as French eyes see it, rather -than French. I think her 'robe' was brown, -which did not become her at all. Crimson -would have suited her. She wore an ugly, -large-brimmed, straw hat, with broad lace falling -over the brim, at a time when Frenchwomen -had hardly begun to wear hats, and—if -my memory does not err—she wore it at -dinner. Her companion was an elderly and -feeble man, seemingly more than seventy. -There was nothing in the appearance of the -couple (viewing them as married folk) unlike -that of many other French pairs, when, as is so -often the case, the man 'ranges' himself at forty -by the side of a young lady of half his years. -My perplexing neighbor understood what I said -to my husband in English, and offered me -some little courteous attentions. There was no -real speech between us. If I had known it was -George Sand, I believe that I should not have -spoken more, as I had not long before read -some unpleasing remarks in her autobiography -on the way in which she was annoyed by '<i lang="fr">les -Anglaises</i>,' and on the '<i lang="fr">étranges sifflements</i>' -which they introduced into the fine French -tongue! She and I were the only two women -in the hotel who ever went into a sort of reading-room -adjoining the house to look at the -newspapers. I had nearly settled with myself -that she was a lady country squire, such as I -used to see drive into Tours on market days, -when one morning, on going, as I used to do, -to the Imperial library, to draw from old illuminated -MSS., my friend, the librarian, M. -d'Orange, said to me, 'Madame, do you know -that you have George Sand in your hotel?' -When I went back, she had just gone with the -gentleman who had lent her his name to travel -with, for she was entered as his 'Comtesse' in -the book of the hotel. He was a Radical Deputy. -I told my lively landlady, who declared -that M. d'Orange '<i lang="fr">n'en savait rien</i>,' and opened -her book to show me the names of M. le -Comte and Madame la Comtesse So-and-So. -Then she said, 'If it was George Sand,' her -books, '<i lang="fr">ma foi</i>,' of which she had read one or -two—instancing a couple of the best—were not -'<i lang="fr">grande chose</i>.' When I got back to England, -I looked at a fine lithographed portrait of -George Sand, and saw it was the woman. -Perhaps it was for the best that I had not -known who she was, as my impression, which -is still vivid, remains of her as she seemed, and -not such as my fancy would at once have set -to work to make her out. Thinking of her -afterward, I was reminded of that passage in -her autobiography in which she tells how, in a -moment of misery, she tested her own strength -by lifting a large heavy stone, and said to herself -in despair, 'And I may have to live forty -years!' Also I thought of Alfred de Musset's -taunting her—she never forgot it—with having -no <i lang="fr">esprit</i>. Of '<i lang="fr">esprit Gallois</i>' she seems to have -had little. The Northern races had the uppermost -in her making, I should say. I have a -notion that the Königsmarks were Pomeranian—of -the Bismarck build—and had she not -the blood of the Counts Horn? I forget. -However, Marshal Saxe spoke for himself in -her. Mr. Hamerton says that an intense desire -to study character had its strong share in -her illicit liaisons with poets, musicians, lawyers, -novelists, etc., all being men above the -common run. But here, again, I cannot help -thinking that race descent from Augustus II. -of Saxony and Aurore de Königsmark counted -for much. Her genuine feeling for the poor, -and a sort of homely motherliness, seem to -have made her greatly loved by the Berry -people.“—<cite>Spectator.</cite></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">The American Senate.</span>—It is amusing to -see discussions on the possible abolition of the -American Senate, in which the disputants on -one side do not seem to see that what they are -proposing is the abolition of the federal system -altogether. It has been explained over and -over again—yet, as long as some seem not to -understand so plain a matter, it must be explained -once more—that a proposal to abolish -the American Senate is quite a different matter -from a proposal to abolish the French Senate. -With regard to the French Senate the question -is simply whether the business of the nation is -likely to be best done by one House or by two. -With regard to the American Senate we have -to go much deeper. The House of Representatives -represents the nation formed by the -union of all the separate States; the Senate -represents the separate States themselves. -The federal nation is formed by the union of -States differing widely in size and power, but -equal in rights and dignity, each of which still -keeps all such attributes of independent commonwealths -as it has not formally given up to -the federal power. To hinder alike the federal -nation from being swamped by the States and -the States from being swamped by the federal -nation, it is needful to have one assembly in -which each State has only that amount of voice -to which it is entitled by its population, and -another assembly in which each State, great -and small, has an equal voice. If any party in -the United States wishes altogether to get rid -of the federal system, if they wish to get rid of -the independence of the several States, if they -wish the great names of Massachusetts and Virginia -to mean no more than an English county -or a French department, then let them propose -the abolition of the Senate of the United -States, and not otherwise. Yet even under -a system where the Second Chamber is absolutely -necessary, we see the comparative weakness -of Second Chambers; its abolition can be -discussed. And herein comes the wonderful -wisdom of the founders of the American Constitution -in strengthening the Senate with -those powers of other kinds which make it -something more than a Second Chamber or -Upper House. And mark further that the -Swiss <i>Ständerath</i> or <i>Conseil des États</i>, formed -after the model of the American Senate, like it -absolutely necessary if Switzerland is to remain -a federal commonwealth, is far from holding -the same position in the country which the -American Senate holds. For it is a mere -partner with the <i>Nationalrath</i>, and has not -those special powers in and by itself which the -American Senate has. But mark again that -the great position of the American Senate is -something which cannot exist along with our -form of executive government. A President -may be asked formally to submit his acts to -be confirmed by one branch of the Legislature; -a King can hardly be asked to do so.—<cite>Contemporary -Review.</cite></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">Shakespeare and Balzac.</span>—Yacht life gives -ample leisure. I had employed part of mine -in making sketches. One laughs at one's extraordinary -performances a day or two after -one has completed them. Yet the attempt is -worth making. It teaches one to admire less -grudgingly the work of real artists who have -conquered the difficulties. Books are less trying -to vanity, for one is producing nothing of -one's own, and submitting only to be interested -or amused, if the author can succeed in -either. One's appetite is generally good on -these occasions, and one can devour anything; -but in the pure primitive element of sea, and -mountains, and unprogressive peasantry, I had -become somehow fastidious. I tried a dozen -novels one after the other without success; at -last, perhaps the morning we left Elversdale, I -found on the library shelves ”<cite>Le Père Goriot</cite>.” -I had read a certain quantity of “Balzac” at -other times, in deference to the high opinion -entertained of him. N——, a fellow of Oriel, -and once Member for Oxford, I remembered -insisting to me that there was more knowledge -of human nature in “Balzac” than in Shakespeare. -I had myself observed in him a -knowledge of a certain kind of human nature -which Shakespeare let alone—a nature in -which healthy vigor had been corrupted into a -caricature by highly seasoned artificial civilization. -Hothouse plants, in which the flowers -had lost their grace of form and natural beauty, -and had gained instead a poison-loaded and -perfumed luxuriance, did not exist in Shakespeare's -time, and if they had they would probably -not have interested him. However, I had -not read “<cite>Le Père Goriot</cite>,” and as I had been -assured that it was the finest of Balzac's -works, I sat down to it and deliberately read -it through. My first impulse after it was over -was to plunge into the sea to wash myself. -As we were going ten knots, there were objections -to this method of ablution, but I felt -that I had been in abominable company. The -book seemed to be the very worst ever written -by a clever man. But it, and N——'s reference -to Shakespeare, led me into a train of -reflections. Le Père Goriot, like King Lear, -has two daughters. Like Lear, he strips himself -of his own fortune to provide for them in -a distinguished manner. He is left to poverty -and misery while his daughters live in splendor. -Why is Lear so grand? Why is Le Père -Goriot detestable? In the first place, all the -company in Balzac are bad. Le Père Goriot -is so wrapped up in his delightful children, that -their very vices charm him, and their scented -boudoirs seem a kind of Paradise. Lear, in -the first scene of the play, acts and talks like -an idiot, but still an idiot with a moral soul in -him. Take Lear's own noble nature from him, -take Kent away, and Edgar, and the fool, and -Cordelia—and the actors in the play, it must -be admitted, are abominable specimens of -humanity—yet even so, leaving the story as it -might have been if Marlowe had written it instead -of Shakespeare, Goneril and Regan -would still have been terrible, while the Paris -dames of fashion are merely loathsome. What -is the explanation of the difference? Partly, -I suppose, it arises from the comparative intellectual -stature of the two sets of women. -Strong natures and weak may be equally -wicked. The strong are interesting, because -they have daring and force. You fear them as -you fear panthers and tigers. You hate, but -you admire. M. Balzac's heroines have no intellectual -nature at all. They are female swine -out of Circe's sty; as selfish, as unscrupulous -as any daughter of Adam could conveniently -be, but soft, and corrupt, and cowardly, and -sensual; so base and low that it would be -a compliment to call them devils. I object to -being brought into the society of people in a -book whom I would shut my eyes rather than -see in real life. Goneril and Regan would be -worth looking at in a cage in the Zoological -Gardens. One would have no curiosity to stare -at a couple of dames caught out of Coventry -Street or the Quadrant. From Shakespeare -to Balzac, from the sixteenth century to the -nineteenth, we have been progressing to considerable -purpose. If the state of literature -remains as it has hitherto been, the measure of -our moral condition, Europe has been going -ahead with a vengeance. I put out the taste -of “<cite>Le Père Goriot</cite>” with “Persuasion.” -Afterwards I found a book really worth reading, -with the uninviting title of “Adventures in -Sport and War,” the author of it a young -Marquis de Compiègne, a ruined representative -of the old French <i lang="fr">noblesse</i>, who appears -first as a penniless adventurer seeking his fortune -in America as a birdstuffer, and tempted -by an advertisement into the swamps of -Florida in search of specimens, a beggarly experience, -yet told with <i lang="fr">naïveté</i> and simplicity, -truth and honor surviving by the side of absolute -helplessness. Afterwards we find him in -France again, fighting as a private in the war -with Germany, and taken prisoner at Sedan; -and again in the campaign against the Commune, -at the taking of Paris, and the burning -of the Tuileries—a tragic picture, drawn, too, -with entire unconsciousness of the condition -to which Balzac, Madame Sand, and the rest -of the fraternity had dragged down the French -nation.—<cite>Longman's Magazine.</cite></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="smcap">The Dread of Old Age.</span>—We all of us, -or at least all of us who are slipping past fifty, -secretly dread old age, and regard with aversion -its usual, or traditionally usual, conditions; -and the sight of a man about whose -years there can be no question, who has passed -by thirty years the average limit of human life, -and by ten years an extreme limit, and yet -talks well, hears fairly well, sees perfectly well -and could walk like another but for weakness, -is pleasantly reassuring. If the man of a -century can be like Sir Moses Montefiore, the -man of ninety may be only a little indolent, the -man of eighty hale and hearty, and the man of -seventy retain “the fullest vigor of his faculties.” -That is one secret, we are convinced, of -the decided popularity of very old statesmen, -and especially old statesmen of great vigor, -a sense among the middle-aged that if they -who are so visible can be so strong and active -and full brilliancy, old age cannot be so dreadful -after all. An apprehension has been removed -or lessened, and a very keen one. -Some of the dread no doubt is traditional, -founded upon boyish recollections, and even -upon books, Shakespeare in particular having -expressed, in lines which have stuck in the -national memory, an unusually strong sense -of the infirmities of age. His celebrated lines -were probably accurate at the time, for they -are accurate now when applied to certain -classes of the very poor; but they no longer -describe the majority of the aged well-to-do. -Whatever the cause, whether improved sanitary -appliances, or greater temperance, or, as we -should ourselves believe, an increase of the -habit of persistently using the mind, and consistently -taking interest in events, it is certain -that the disease called senility is among the -fully-fed much rarer than it used to be. The -old lose their hearing, and their activity, and -part of the keenness of their sight, and are -supposed to be grown duller alike to pleasure -and to pain; but they much seldomer become -totally blind, or fatuous, or unable to control -their features, or incapable of guiding themselves -about. Men of eighty-four or five, -who, in the early part of the century, would -have fallen into second childhood—then a disease -recognized not only by doctors, but by all -men, and regarded as a sort of idiotcy—now -talk easily, and glide over little deficiencies of -memory, and are, apart from a not ungraceful -physical weakness, truly men. The younger -generation has, however, scarcely realised the -change in its full extent, and fears age, therefore, -unconsciously a little more acutely than -it should, though it has reason for some of its -fear. The lot of the old is not the happiest, -even if they are fortunately placed. They -suffer from the certainty that such physical ills -as they have cannot be cured, and a fear that -they will become worse, from a deficiency, not -so much of occupation as of imperative occupation, -the business occupation of middle-age -and from that unconscious insolence of the -babbling youth around them, which is, perhaps, -most felt by the aged when youth is most loving -and considerate. One does not want to be -“considered” by a baby. They suffer from -a jar between their own impression of their -own wisdom, as a necessary product of -their long experience, and a secret doubt -whether the young, who evidently think so -differently, can be all wrong, not to mention -that actual disrespect which the peculiar conceit -of the young always appears to indicate -even when it is not intended. They suffer -from their keen memory for disappointments, -which sometimes in the reflections of the old exaggerate -their bulk till life seems made up of little -else—a phenomenon constantly observable -in the monologues of the uneducated and ill-restrained. -And they suffer most of all from -the loss, ever-increasing as time slips along, -not only of those dearest to them, but of accustomed -intimates, and especially of friends who -grow fewer not only from deaths, but from -departures, alienations, and changes of condition -and feeling. The very old, as far as our -experience serves, are fortunate if, outside the -circle of blood relations, they retain even one -or two close friends: and this to some men -and women, especially to those much -dependent on conversation to stimulate their -natures and “put them in spirits,” is the most -irremediable of losses. They feel as if life had -altered, and the very sunlight were less inspiring. -Add that all the indulgences of hope, including -day dreaming, become vapid—reason -showing the unreality—and gradually cease, -and we may admit that even under favorable -circumstances old age is not an enviable condition, -more especially among Englishmen and -Americans, who feel little of that instinctive -reverence for age, and belief in its nearness to -the divine, which characterises all Asia and a -large portion of Southern Europe. The -Teutons think allusions to gray hairs, which -Southerners regard as solemn, and will accept -even in a theatre with applause, a little rhetorical -or artificial. The respect for the old is not -gone, but a certain reverence is, if it ever existed -among us, which, remembering Shakespeare's -lines and our own workhouse arrangements, -we half incline to doubt.—<cite>Spectator.</cite></p> - -<p><span class="smcap">A True Critic.</span>—He who has the genuine -pictorial sense, of which not even the idea can -be given to those who have not got it, is quickly -discovered by those who have the same gift. -They will detect him in the gallery by many signs. -He is guided by instinct to stand at the right -distance from the picture, which is not a mere -matter of taste as most folk think, but the distance -at which the picture has the same expanse -to the eye as the real object replaced by it -would have. A little nearer or a little farther -he feels the picture bearing falsely. Falsely -when things are represented which in the real -view would alter (as the picture objects cannot) -in their mutual effects by advancing towards -or retreating from them. His eye goes right -to the heart of the picture; the spot made to be -such by the artifice of the painter. He is in no -hurry to look elsewhere. He looks towards -one point, but he sees the rest sufficiently without -peeping about. His consciousness takes -in the whole simultaneously, and for a while -he examines nothing; forgets that he sees a -picture, and feels the quickening within of the -thoughts which such a scene might stir up. -He can presently put aside all this and criticise -if he cares to do so, just as the musician can -cease from his tune and look to the strings or -stops. For he is curious about the mechanism -of the delightful delusion as the musician -or the most enraptured of his audience may -care to look into the arrangement of a musical -instrument. But the picture like the violin, is -not in operation at all while it is being examined.—<cite>Art -Journal.</cite></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> As vagabonds are frequently mentioned -in this narrative, and Mokrievitch himself became -one of them, it may be well to explain -that the wanderers so designated are simply -tramps unfurnished with passports. A double -stream of these waifs is always on the move through Siberia—one towards the east, the -other towards the west—the latter free, the former -generally in bonds. Many of the involuntary -settlers either do not take kindly to work, -or find their lot intolerable, and so make off -on the first opportunity, begging their way, -and living on the charity of the peasants, who -never refuse a destitute traveller a crust of -bread and a night's lodging. Not a few of -these wanderers sink under the hardships to -which they are exposed, or freeze to death in -the forests, and the survivors are nearly always -arrested before they reach the frontier of European -Russia; but they cause the police a -world of trouble. Having no papers, they are -able to give false names, and deny being fugitive -transports—which they almost invariably -do. There is then nothing for it but to write -to whatever address a man may give—generally -some remote village—and inquire if he is -known there. Should the answer be in the -negative, the fact is taken as proof of the paperless -one's guilt, and he is sent back in -chains to the interior of Siberia. As likely as -not, however, it will be in the affirmative, for -there prevails among these outcasts a strange -yet regular trade in what the vagabonds call -“nests.” For instance, Ivan Ivanovitch, being -in want of money, sells to Peter Iliouschka, -who has a few kopecs to spare, the name and -address of some mujik of his acquaintance, -who long ago left his native village for parts -unknown—or, perhaps, his own name and address. -This is Peter's nest, and when he falls -into the hands of the police he tells them he is -Paul Lubovitch, from, let us say, Teteriwino, -in the government of Koursk. On this, a missive -is sent to the <i>starosta</i> of Teteriwino, who -replies, in due course, to the effect that the -village did once possess a Paul Lubovitch, but -whether the person in question be the same -man he is unable to say. The next proceeding -is to send the <i lang="fr">soi-disant</i> Paul to Teteriwino for -identification. This proceeding naturally results -in the detection of the imposture, whereupon -our friend Peter is condemned to a new -term of exile, and sent back whence he came.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_2_2" href="#FNanchor_2_2" class="label">2</a> -Admiration, Hope, and Love. <i>Excursion</i>, -b. iv.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_3_3" href="#FNanchor_3_3" class="label">3</a> -Admiration, Hope, and Love. <i>Excursion</i>, -b. ix.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_4_4" href="#FNanchor_4_4" class="label">4</a> -Not only the <i>Ancient Mariner</i> and the first -part of <i>Christabel</i>, but also <i>Kubla Khan</i> were -composed at Nether Stovey among the Quantock -Hills in 1797. The second part of <i>Christabel</i> -belongs to the year 1800, and was written -at Keswick, although not published till 1816. -Nothing of the same quality was ever produced -by Coleridge, although he continued to write -verses.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_5_5" href="#FNanchor_5_5" class="label">5</a> -It is strange, however, to find Mr. Traill -commending Coleridge's very last volume -(1830) <i>On the Constitution of Church and State</i>, -as “yielding a more characteristic flavor of the -author's style” than the <i>Aids to Reflection</i>. -Characteristic, no doubt, this volume is of the -author's mode of thought; but in point of style, -it and his <i>Lay Sermon</i> or <i>Statesman's Manual</i> -in 1816 appear to us the most desultory and -imperfect of all his writings.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_6_6" href="#FNanchor_6_6" class="label">6</a> -By Dr. James Marsh, an American divine, -whose preliminary essay is prefaced to the fifth -English edition, and by Mr. Green in his -<i>Spiritual Philosophy</i> (1865), founded on Coleridge's -teaching.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_7_7" href="#FNanchor_7_7" class="label">7</a> -<i>Spiritual Philosophy, founded on the Teaching -of the late Samuel Taylor Coleridge.</i> By -Jos. Henry Green, F.R.S., D.C.L. 1865.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_8_8" href="#FNanchor_8_8" class="label">8</a> -This was a favorite thought with Coleridge, -as for example, in his <i>Literary Remains</i> (vol. i. -p. 393-4): “The Trinity of Persons in the -Unity of the Godhead would have been a necessary -idea of my speculative reason. God must -have had co-eternally an adequate idea of Himself -in and through which He created all things. -But this would only have been a speculative -idea. Solely in consequence of our redemption -does the Trinity become a doctrine, the belief -of which as real is commanded by conscience.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_9_9" href="#FNanchor_9_9" class="label">9</a> -In his well-known translation of <i>Wilhelm -Meister</i>.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_10_10" href="#FNanchor_10_10" class="label">10</a> -Charles Hawley, <i>Addresses before the Cayuga -County Historical Society</i>, 1883-84, p. 31.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_11_11" href="#FNanchor_11_11" class="label">11</a> -<i>The King Country; or, Explorations in -New Zealand</i>, by T. H. Kerry; see Nicholls in -the <i>Academy</i>, Aug. 23, 1884, p. 113.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_12_12" href="#FNanchor_12_12" class="label">12</a> -<i>The League of the Iroquois</i>, p. 12.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_13_13" href="#FNanchor_13_13" class="label">13</a> -Hawley, <i>l.c.</i>, p. 17.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_14_14" href="#FNanchor_14_14" class="label">14</a> -See, however, Daniel Wilson, <i>Pre-Aryan -American Man</i>, p. 47.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_15_15" href="#FNanchor_15_15" class="label">15</a> -<i>Unity of Nature</i>, p. 393.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_16_16" href="#FNanchor_16_16" class="label">16</a> -<i>The Indians in the United States.</i>—In an -interesting paper read at a recent meeting of -the Académie des Sciences, M. Paul Passy, -who has recently returned from a visit to the -North-Western States of America, endeavored -to show that the generally accepted theory of -the eventual disappearance of the “red man” -is erroneous, and that though certain tribes -have been exterminated in war and others -decimated by disease and “firewater,” the -contact of civilisation is not necessarily fatal -to the Indians. M. Passy states that there are -at present 376,000 Indians in the country, of -whom 67,000 have become United States citizens. -The Indians in the reserve territories -are in part maintained by the Government, -many of them, however, earning their living -by shooting and fishing, and also by agriculture. -The progress which they have made in -farming is shown by the fact that they had under -cultivation in 1882 more than 205,000 acres -of land, as against 157,000 in India. Moreover, -the total Indian population, exclusive of -the Indians who are citizens of the United -States and of those in Alaska, had increased -during the same interval by more than 5,000. -M. Passy says that the Federal Government, -though not doing nearly so much as it should -for the education of Indian children, devoted a -sum of $365,515 to this purpose in 1882, and -in the State of New York the six Iroquois -“nations” settled there have excellent schools, -which three-fourths of their children regularly -attend. The five “nations” in Indian territory -are also well cared for in this respect, having -11 schools for boarders, and 198 day schools -attended by 6,183 children. In 1827, a Cherokee -invented a syllabic alphabet of 85 letters, -and this alphabet is now used for the publication -of a newspaper in the Cherokee language. -In addition to the tribes in cantonments, a -great many children (about 8,000) are disseminated -among the schools in the different States. -There are also three normal and industrial -schools in which, apart from elementary subjects, -the boys are taught agriculture and different -trades, and the girls sewing, cooking, and -housekeeping. A journal in the Dakota -tongue, called the <i>Yapi Oaye</i>, is published at -Chicago for the benefit of the pupils in that -region, and it is said that the Indians of the -territories show themselves very anxious to -learn, so much so that the Ometras of Nebraska -have sold part of their territory so as to be -able to keep up their schools. M. Passy adds -that the Americans differ very much in their -estimate of the sum required for providing all -the young Indians with a sound education, -some of them putting it as high as $10,000,000, -while the lowest estimate is $3,000,000, or ten -times as much as is now being spent. His -conclusion is that if the Indians are destined to -disappear, it will be because they become fused -with the other citizens of the United States.—<i>Times</i>, -Sept. 8, 1884.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_17_17" href="#FNanchor_17_17" class="label">17</a> -See Hawley, <i>l.c.</i>, p. 31.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_18_18" href="#FNanchor_18_18" class="label">18</a> -<i>Lectures on Science of Language</i>, vol. i. p. -308.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_19_19" href="#FNanchor_19_19" class="label">19</a> -See Giacomo Bove, <i>Viaggio alla Patagonia -ed alla Terra del Fuoco</i>, in <i>Nuova Antologia</i>, -Dec. 15, 1881.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_20_20" href="#FNanchor_20_20" class="label">20</a> -<i>Travels</i>, Deutsch von Dieffenbach. Braunschweig, -1844, p. 229.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_21_21" href="#FNanchor_21_21" class="label">21</a> -Darwin, <i>Narrative of the Surveying Voyage -of H.M.'s Ships “Adventure” and “Beagle,”</i> -1839, vol. iii. p. 226.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_22_22" href="#FNanchor_22_22" class="label">22</a> -D. Wilson, <i>Pre-Aryan American Man</i>, p. 4.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_23_23" href="#FNanchor_23_23" class="label">23</a> -<i>Rig-Veda-Sanhita, the Sacred Hymns of the -Brahmans, translated by M. M.</i>, Vol. i. p. xxxix.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_24_24" href="#FNanchor_24_24" class="label">24</a> -Tertullian, <i>Apolog.</i> 16: “rabula et mendaciorum -loquacissimus.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_25_25" href="#FNanchor_25_25" class="label">25</a> -See Strabo, iv. 196; Plin. xvii. 12; Liv. -xxxviii. 17.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_26_26" href="#FNanchor_26_26" class="label">26</a> -The annual returns of the very necessary -squirrel slaughter in the woods of Altyre, of -Cawdor Castle, Beaufort Castle, and Darnaway -Castle, each average one thousand squirrels. -Thus these four estates might furnish four -thousand tails per annum.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_27_27" href="#FNanchor_27_27" class="label">27</a> -Lassalle was killed in a duel in 1864, at -the age of thirty-nine.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_28_28" href="#FNanchor_28_28" class="label">28</a> -In the play, Charles V. has a long conference -with Franz, but ends by saying of him -what Bismarck must have said to himself -about Lassalle: “The man is great, but his is -not the greatness which I seek, and which I -can employ.” -</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"><div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse">“Der mann ist gross, doch ist es nicht die Grösse,</div> - <div class="verse">Welche ich suche und gebrauchen kann.”</div> -</div></div></div> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_29_29" href="#FNanchor_29_29" class="label">29</a> -Karl Sand, a student of Erlangen, assassinated -Kotzebue at Manheim in 1819, and -having ineffectually tried to commit suicide, -was executed in the following year. In striking -Kotzebue, he meant, as he said, “to exterminate -the apologist of despotism.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_30_30" href="#FNanchor_30_30" class="label">30</a> -“Personne n'a de l'esprit, comme tout le -monde.” “On peut avoir plus d'esprit qu'un -autre, mais non plus d'esprit que tous les autres.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_31_31" href="#FNanchor_31_31" class="label">31</a> -Prince Bismarck does not care much about -the theatre, and it may be mentioned that when -he visited Paris in 1867, Offenbach's “Grande -Duchesse,” which, as a skit upon militaryism, -made so many laugh, excited in him only anger. -He was especially indignant at the song -of “Here is the Sabre of my Sire.” “You -can't expect a pair of Jews (Offenbach and Ludovic -Halévy) to feel any reverence for military -traditions,” he said; “but now 'Le Sabre de -mon Père' will be associated with ludicrous -ideas in the minds of Frenchmen, and old generals -will be ashamed to give their swords to -their sons on account of this odious jingle.” -At this same visit to Paris, however, Bismarck -saw a performance of Sardou's “Nos bons Villageois” -at the Gymnase, and he laughed loudly -at the scene in which a Colonel, who is -Mayor of his village, makes all the municipal -Councillors sign a document acknowledging -that they are “a troop of donkeys.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_32_32" href="#FNanchor_32_32" class="label">32</a> -Two of Bismarck's heroes in history are -Wallenstein and William the Silent. He once -said of Marshal von Moltke: “Lucky man, he -need only make his one speech a year in the -Reichstag and then the echoes of cannon seem -to be speaking for him!” Marshal von Moltke, -however, speaks as well as he writes. His -<i>Letters</i> to his late wife, while he was travelling -in Turkey and the Danubian Provinces, are -faultless in their composition, instructive, -amusing, and models of style. All the qualities -which distinguish them are to be found in -the Marshal's speeches, which are clear, short, -and captivate the attention, not less by what -they contain than by the tuneful voice in -which they are uttered.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_33_33" href="#FNanchor_33_33" class="label">33</a> -Some years ago, when a young Prussian -officer of noble family was turned out of the -army for declining a challenge on conscientious -grounds, an English clergyman sent -Prince Bismarck a copy of the Diary of Mr. -Adams, who was American Minister of the -Court of St. James's at the beginning of this -century. Mr. Adams speaks with admiration -of the efforts which were being made to put -down duelling in England by force of public -opinion. Prince Bismarck, in courteously acknowledging -the book, wrote: “There is much -good sense in England, but you have not done -away with duelling, as you suppose. There is -more of it among your schoolboys, who fight -with fists, than among those of any other country; -and this may prevent the necessity for -much fighting in after-life. English boys take -rank at school according to their pluck, and -hold that rank afterwards.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_34_34" href="#FNanchor_34_34" class="label">34</a> -M. Teste had been one of Louis Philippe's -Ministers. Getting into disgrace through -financial jobberies, which subjected him to -criminal proceedings, he had to resign his portfolio -and retire altogether from public life. To -revenge himself on Louis Philippe's family -(though no member of it had had any share in -his ruin) he privately drew up for Napoleon III. -the report that was required to justify the seizure -of the Orleans property. No respectable -lawyer could be found to do this work.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_35_35" href="#FNanchor_35_35" class="label">35</a> -After a dinner at Count Lehndorff's the -conversation once fell upon religious topics, -and Bismarck exclaimed: “I cannot understand -how without faith in a revealed religion -we can believe in God; nor do I see how, without -faith in a God, Dispenser of all good and -Supreme Judge, a man can do his duty. If I -were not a Christian, I should not remain at -my post. It can yield me nothing more in the -way of honors; the exercise of power is no -longer a pleasure but a worry, since I can never -carry out the simplest scheme without struggles, -trying to a man of my age and weak -health. If I were ambitious of popularity, I -could get it by retiring. All men would speak -well of me if I lived in retirement. I should -then perhaps have more real power than I -have now. I should certainly have more -power to help my friends. But it is because I -believe in a Divine dispensation which has -marked out Germany for great destinies that I -remain at my post. I have a duty to perform -and must continue to do it so long as I am -permitted. If I am stricken down and rendered -incapable for work, then I shall know -that my time of rest has come; but not till -then.”</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_36_36" href="#FNanchor_36_36" class="label">36</a> -Bismarck has never had much veneration -either for diplomatists or diplomacy. Here is -an extract of a letter which he wrote to his -wife in 1851 when he was at Frankfort: “In -the art of saying nothing and in a great many -words, I am making rapid progress. I write -many pages of letters which read like leading -articles, and if Manteuffel, after perusing them, -can tell what they are about, he certainly knows -more than I. Every one of us pretends to believe -that his colleagues are full of ideas and -plans; and yet all the time the whole body of -us knows nothing, and each is aware that the -others know nothing. No man, not even the -most malicious sceptic of a democrat, can believe -what charlatanism and big pretence is all -this diplomacy.” -</p> -<p> -It may be remarked, in view of Prince Bismarck's -opinions on duelling, that for an affront -like that which he offered to the young attaché, -a French Admiral, the Bailli de Suffren, was -killed by a lieutenant. The affront was offered -on the high seas; the subaltern bore it at the -time without a murmur, but on returning to -France he resigned and sent the admiral a challenge, -saying: “You are no longer my superior -now. We are both gentlemen and you owe -me a reparation.” In Germany this would -have been impossible, for the attaché must -have belonged either to the <i>Landwehr</i> or the -<i>Landsturm</i>, so that the Chancellor as a general -of the <i>Landwehr</i> remained always his superior. -Thus in military countries one of the -chief excuses for duelling—namely, that it enables -a man to punish the insolence of office—cannot -be urged.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_37_37" href="#FNanchor_37_37" class="label">37</a> -A fact that speaks well for Prince Bismarck -is that ladies are not afraid of him. Napoleon -I. made women cower; they knew that his -Corsican spitefulness would disdain no means -of retaliation for a slight or an injury. But -ladies have often been maliciously epigrammatical, -or downright saucy to the Chancellor, -without having anything worse to fear from -him than scowls and grumbles.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_38_38" href="#FNanchor_38_38" class="label">38</a> -The process of obtaining an engagement -is the same for a lady as a gentleman, <i>i.e.</i> a -visit to an agent's office, &c., &c. Here is an -advertisement which evidently offers a rare -chance:— -</p> -<p> -“Wanted, ladies of attractive appearance, -with good singing voices. Can be received for -long pantomime season. Dresses found. Salaried -engagement (an exceptionable opportunity -for clever amateurs desirous of adopting -the profession).”</p></div></div> - -<div class="transnote"> - -<h3>Transcriber's Notes</h3> - -<p>Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations -in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and -punctuation remains unchanged.</p> - -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Eclectic Magazine of Foreign -Literature, Science, and Art, by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ECLECTIC MAGAZINE--MARCH 1885 *** - -***** This file should be named 52887-h.htm or 52887-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/8/8/52887/ - -Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Les Galloway and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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