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diff --git a/old/52887-0.txt b/old/52887-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8c85d59..0000000 --- a/old/52887-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11075 +0,0 @@ -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 - - - - - -[Illustration: An open book, listing contents as Literature, Art, Science, -Belleslettres, History, Biography, Astronomy, Geology, etc.] - - - Eclectic Magazine - - OF - - FOREIGN LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART. - - New Series. } { Old Series complete - Vol. XLI., No. 3. } MARCH, 1885. { in 63 vols. - - - - -FROM SIBERIA TO SWITZERLAND. - -THE STORY OF AN ESCAPE. - -BY WILLIAM WESTALL. - - -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. - -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. - -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. - - WILLIAM WESTALL. - - -THE ARREST. - -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. - -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. - -The police were upon us. - -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.” - -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. - -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?” - -“No; but your comrades....” the rest of the sentence, owing to the din, -I did not catch. - -“What comrades?” I asked. - -“You will soon see,” replied Soudeikin. - -Then he ordered his men to search us, after which we were to be taken -to the police office. - -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. - -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. - -In a few minutes he was garotted and forced into a seat near us. - -“Separate the prisoners one from another!” cried Colonel Novitzki. - -On this each of us was immediately surrounded by four soldiers. - -“If they resist, use your bayonets!” said the colonel. - -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. - -“Have the goodness to state your name,” said Colonel Novitzki, after -the operation was completed. - -“I would rather not,” I answered. - -“In that case I shall tell you who you are.” - -“You will do me a great pleasure,” I replied. - -“You are called Debagorio Mokrievitch,” said the colonel. - -“Yes, that is your name,” put in Soudeikin. - -“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, colonel,” I answered, giving -the military salute. - -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. - - -THE SENTENCE. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - - -SENT TO SIBERIA. - -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. - -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. - -“Will you not tell us whither we are going?” asked one of our number of -General Gubernet, as we stepped into the van. - -“To Eastern Siberia,” said the General, who stood near the door. - -Then I knew my fate—fourteen years hard labor—possibly in a region of -almost endless night, and as cold as the Polar regions. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -I almost shout. - -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. - -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. - -“Hallo, brother!” I say, “you seem to have lost your hat.” - -“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. - -“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.” - -“Oh, but you never thought of such a thing, and I am sure you would not -do it, sir.” - -“But why?” I ask. - -“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.” - -“Very well, brother, here is your hat which I found and hid—just to -frighten you a bit.” - -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. - - -THE CONVOY. - -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 _vice versâ_. -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. - -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. - -On August 20, or thereabouts—I am not sure to a day—we were once more -_en route_, 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. - -We were now put under an altogether different _régime_. 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. - -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. - -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 _étapes_, 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. - -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. - -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. - -In the same corridor, but at the other end, is the _maidan_, 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 _maidan_ is an -institution common to every Siberian convoy and gaol. The _markitant_, -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 _mir_. -They elect a _starosta_, 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 -_starosta_. 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. - -The scene in the _markitant's_ 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 _markitant_ 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. - -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. - -“Hallo, Ivan Ivanovitch, how goes it?” would call out one of the tramps -to a man whom he recognised in the chain gang. - -“Ah, is that you, Iliouschka?” would answer the other pleasantly. -“What! have you become a vagabond[1] already?” - -“Yes, I am on the lookout for cheap lodgings; I dare say I shall soon -get accommodated.” - -This in allusion to the certainty, sooner or later, of his recapture. - -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 _étapes_, or halting-places, -rendered observance of this injunction so extremely difficult that it -was seldom enforced. - - -THE SUBSTITUTION. - -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. - -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 _étape_, 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. - -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 _étape_ 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. - -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. - -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 _soi-disant_ Debagorio Mokrievitch -was _not_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -At length came my turn. - -“Pavlov!” shouts the starosta. - -“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. - -“Paul Pavlov?” says the presiding councillor, and then, after favoring -me with a fugitive glance, he bends once more over his books. - -“Yes, your nobleness,” I reply, doing my best to speak and look like a -peasant prisoner. - -“For what crime were you judged?” - -“For burglary, your nobleness.” - -“Are the effects given you by the Government all in order?” - -“They are, your nobleness.” - -“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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _volost_. 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. - -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. - - -THE FLIGHT. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“Good day, my boy,” answered the peasant, an old man with a long white -beard, in a kindly voice. - -“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. - -“Yes, you can have bread,” said the old man, handing me a loaf. - -“Thank you, father; and may I pass the night in your house?” - -“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?” - -“From the convoy.” - -“I thought so. I was right then. You are a vagabond.” - -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. - -“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.” - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“Won't you come in, brother,” he said, “and rest yourself and take a -cup of tea?” - -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. - -“Is it a long time since you left the gang?” asked my entertainer. - -“Quite lately. I belonged to convoy number four.” - -“You have turned vagabond then, brother?” - -“Yes, what is the good of staying here?” - -“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?” - -I gave him an itinerary, though not exactly the one I meant to follow. - -“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.” - -“What would you advise me to do, then,” I asked, greatly alarmed at -this news. - -“I will tell you, brother; listen!” - -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. - -“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.” - -“God knows. Perhaps they have found a body somewhere and are looking -for the murderer.” - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“Bells!” I cried, starting up. “Does a mail-coach run on this road?” - -“No,” answered the peasant, “we have no mail-coach here; it is probably -a private carriage which is passing through the village.” - -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? - -“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. - -In a few minutes she was back with the news that the carriage belonged -to the gendarmes, and that they were questioning the _starosta_ and the -clerk. - -“The gendarmes!” I exclaimed, “who says so—where are they from?” - -“From Irkoutsk. It is the coachman himself who told me. He thinks they -are after a political runaway.” - -“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). - -“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. - -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 _detours_ 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 -_perdu_ 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. - -To my great relief he opened it himself. - -“I should not have recognised you, if I had not just heard all your -history,” he said, after we had exchanged greetings. - -“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.” - -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. - -“When did you hear of my flight?” I asked. - -“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?” - -I told him. - -“Did anybody see you come here?” - -“Not a soul.” - -“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.” - -“Where then?” - -“At my farm. But first of all you must change your skin.” - -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. - -“Is your farm far from here?” I asked, as we sat down to supper. - -“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.” - -An hour later we were _en route_, 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. - - -LIBERTY. - -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. - -Three other men who about the same time attempted to escape were all -recaptured. - -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. - -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! - -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. - -I slept the sleep of the just, rose betimes, and called for the -starosta. - -“Are the horses ready?” I asked. “And be good enough to bring hither -our itinerary-cards.” - -“The station-master will himself bring your itinerary-cards, and as for -the horses they are already yoked up.” - -Half-an-hour later the station-master (otherwise director), came into -our room, holding in his hand the itinerary-cards. - -“I am sorry to trouble you,” he said politely; “but I should like to -know which of you young gentlemen is Ivan Alexandrovitch Selivanoff?” - -“At your service sir,” I answered, stepping forward. - -The station-master looked at me with a ludicrous expression of -bewilderment and surprise. - -“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. - -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. - -“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!” - -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. - -“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.” - -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 _en route_. 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. - - * * * * * - -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.—_Contemporary Review._ - -FOOTNOTES: - -[1] 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 _starosta_ 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 _soi-disant_ 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. - - - - -COLERIDGE AS A SPIRITUAL THINKER. - -BY PRINCIPAL TULLOCH. - - -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. - -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 _Life of Sterling_, 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. - -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. - -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 _Life -of Sterling_. 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. - -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,[2] 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 _Excursion_ 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 _Ecclesiastical Sonnets_ -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.”[3] 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. - -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[4] -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 _Aids to Reflection_ 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,”[5] 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.[6] 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. - -What, then, were its main contributions to religious thought, and in -what respects generally is Coleridge to be reckoned a spiritual power? - -(1.) First, and chiefly, in the _Aids to Reflection_, 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.”[7] 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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _ab initio_ 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.” - -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. - -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.[8] - -These doctrines are merely used in illustration, as they are by -Coleridge himself in his _Aids to Reflection_. 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—_Exeunt -in mysteria_. 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. - -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 _rationale_ -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. - -If we turn for a moment to the special exposition of the doctrines -of sin and redemption which Coleridge has given in the _Aids to -Reflection_, 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. - -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.” - -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.” - -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 _that passeth all understanding. 'Who knoweth -the mind of the Lord, or being his councillor who hath instructed -him?' Factum est._” This is all that can be said of the mystery of -redemption, or of the doctrine of atonement on its Divine side. - -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. - -(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 _Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit_ was not -published till six years after his death, in 1840; and it is curious to -notice their accidental connection with the _Confessions of a Beautiful -Soul_, which had been translated by Carlyle some years before.[9] -These _Confessions_, 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 -_Aids to Reflection_, 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. - -The _Confessions of an Inquiring Spirit_ 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 _Confessions_ -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. - -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 -_Word that was in the beginning_;—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 -_lie for God_, but, seek as I may, be thankful for what I have and -wait.” - -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 _finds_ us -“bears witness for itself that it has proceeded from the Holy Spirit.” -“In the Bible,” he says again, “there is more that _finds_ 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.” - -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?” - -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. - -(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. - -This volume _On the Constitution of Church and State according to the -idea of each_ 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. - -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.” - -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 -_Idea_ 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.” - -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.—_Fortnightly Review._ - -FOOTNOTES: - -[2] Admiration, Hope, and Love. _Excursion_, b. iv. - -[3] Admiration, Hope, and Love. _Excursion_, b. ix. - -[4] Not only the _Ancient Mariner_ and the first part of _Christabel_, -but also _Kubla Khan_ were composed at Nether Stovey among the Quantock -Hills in 1797. The second part of _Christabel_ 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. - -[5] It is strange, however, to find Mr. Traill commending Coleridge's -very last volume (1830) _On the Constitution of Church and State_, as -“yielding a more characteristic flavor of the author's style” than -the _Aids to Reflection_. Characteristic, no doubt, this volume is of -the author's mode of thought; but in point of style, it and his _Lay -Sermon_ or _Statesman's Manual_ in 1816 appear to us the most desultory -and imperfect of all his writings. - -[6] By Dr. James Marsh, an American divine, whose preliminary essay -is prefaced to the fifth English edition, and by Mr. Green in his -_Spiritual Philosophy_ (1865), founded on Coleridge's teaching. - -[7] _Spiritual Philosophy, founded on the Teaching of the late Samuel -Taylor Coleridge._ By Jos. Henry Green, F.R.S., D.C.L. 1865. - -[8] This was a favorite thought with Coleridge, as for example, in his -_Literary Remains_ (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.” - -[9] In his well-known translation of _Wilhelm Meister_. - - - - -THE PORTRAIT. - -A STORY OF THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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—” - -“I don't see any difference, sir,” said I; “everything here seems -exactly the same as when I went away—” - -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.” - -“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—” - -“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.” - -“It is as well, then, that it has interrupted itself,” I said, rather -bitterly; for disappointment is hard to hear. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“A deal too busy, sir, if you take my opinion,” he said. - -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. - -“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.” - -“That's a new thing for him,” I said. - -“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.” - -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.” - -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. - -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. - -“What do you want with me?” I said. - -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—” - -“My good woman,” I said, “who can have taken all that from you? surely -nobody can be so cruel?” - -“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—” - -“To whom am I to speak? who is it that has done this to you?” I said. - -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. - -“Yes; I am Philip Canning,” I said; “but what have I to do with this? -and to whom am I to speak?” - -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.” - -“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.” - -“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. - -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. - -“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.” - -“My agent? who is that?” said my father, quietly. - -“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.” - -“No doubt she was behind with her rent.” - -“Very likely, sir. She seemed very poor,” said I. - -“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.” - -“Certainly, sir,” I replied, “when they have got anything to pay.” - -“I don't allow the reservation,” he said. But he was not angry, which I -had feared he would be. - -“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—” - -“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.” - -“Not to let you be taken in by men without pity,” I said. - -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—” - -“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. - -“Is that so very extraordinary?” he said. - -“No; of course it is not extraordinary that I should resemble my -mother. Only—I have heard very little of her—almost nothing.” - -“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. - -“Yes, sir; and opened the box, sir; and it's a—it's a speaking -likeness—” - -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. - -“That's enough. I asked no information. You can go now.” - -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. - -“You scarcely know the drawing-room, Phil,” he said at last. - -“Very little. I have never seen it used. I have a little awe of it, to -tell the truth.” - -“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.” - -“Oh, it is not important,” I said; “the awe was childish. I have not -thought of it since I came home.” - -“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? - - * * * * * - -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. - -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?” - -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.” - -“Was?—then she is dead. What a pity!” I said; “what a pity! so young -and so sweet!” - -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?” - -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. - -My mother! - -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. - -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. - -“I cannot understand it,” I said. - -“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.” - -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. - -“They are not as we are, sir,” I said; “they look upon us with larger, -other eyes than ours.” - -“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.” - -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. - -“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——” - -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?” - -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.” - -“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. - -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. - -“Yes, I think this is the best place,” my father said a minute after, -in his usual tone. - -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. - -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. - -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.” - -“That looks like kindness,” said I. - -“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 _had_ 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. - -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. - -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. - - * * * * * - -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. - -“My good woman—I—have been greatly occupied. I have had—no time to do -anything.” - -“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.” - -“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.” - -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 _protégée_ 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. - -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—” - -“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. - -“Manage for—master,” he said, with a face of consternation. “You, Mr. -Philip!” - -“You seem to have a great contempt for me, Morphew.” - -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. - -“Quarrel!” I said. “I have never quarreled with my father, and I don't -mean to begin now.” - -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. - -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——” - -“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. - -“Act of oppression,” he said with a smile—“piece of cruelty, -exaction—there are half-a-dozen words——” - -“Sir——” I cried. - -“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——” - -“But then no circumstances are taken into account—no bad luck, no evil -chances, no loss unexpected.” - -“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.” - -“And must it always be so?” I said. “Is there no way of ameliorating or -bringing in a better state of things?” - -“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. - -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? - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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?” - -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.” - -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. - -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. - -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—— - -“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?” - -“Certainly,” he said; “I take as much trouble about their drains as I -do about my own.” - -“That is always something, I suppose.” - -“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.” - -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. - -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. - - * * * * * - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -“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.” - -“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. - -“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.” - -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. - -“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.” - -“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.” - -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.” - -“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.” - -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. - -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?” - -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?” - -“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.” - -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.” - -“Thank you,” I said; “but father, that is not what it is.” - -“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.” - -“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——” - -“What end,” he said, with again the tremble in his voice, “is to be -served by that?” - -“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.” - -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.” - -“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.” - -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. - - * * * * * - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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——” - -“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——” - -“Go, sir,” he said; “go at once—no more of this folly. I will not have -you in this room. Go——go!” - -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. - -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. - -“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.” - -“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——” - -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.” - -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.” - -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——” - -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.” - -My father rose. He called out to me threateningly, “I will have nothing -touched that is hers. Nothing that is hers shall be profaned——” - -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. - -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.” - -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. - -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. - -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. - - * * * * * - -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. - -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. - -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.—_Blackwood's Magazine._ - - - - -DELLA CRUSCA AND ANNA MATILDA: - -AN EPISODE IN ENGLISH LITERATURE. - -BY ARMINE T. KENT. - -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 _Literary History_, 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. - -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. - -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,— - - The slave and the wrestlers, what are they to me, - From plots and contention removed? - And Job with still less satisfaction I see, - When I think on the pains I have proved. - -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:— - - E'en so when Parsons pours his lay, - Correctly wild, or sweetly strong, - Or Greathead charms the listening day, - With English or Italian song, - Or when, with trembling wing I try, - Like some poor wounded bird, to fly, - Your fostering smiles you ne'er refuse, - But are the Pallas and the Muse! - -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:— - - O blest with taste, with Genius blest, - Sole mistress of thy Bertie's breast, - Who to his love-enraptured arms are given - The rich reward his virtues claim from Heaven. - -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 _Dithyrambics to Bacchus_, _Odes to the -Siroc_, 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. - -Some of these poems were printed in an _Arno Miscellany_, of which -only a few copies were privately circulated. It was a subsequent -and larger collection, published in 1785, under the name of _The -Florence Miscellany_, 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 _Ode on a -distant prospect of Rome_:— - - When Rome of old, terrific queen, - High-placed on Victory's sounding car, - With arm sublime and martial mien, - Brandished the flaming lance of war, - Low crouched in dust lay Afric's swarthy crowd, - And silken Asia sank, and barbarous Britain bowed. - -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 _Gentleman's_, the _European_, the _Universal Magazine_, -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 -_Florence Miscellany_. 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 -_Autobiography_, 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:— - - While slow he trod this desolated coast, - From the cracked ground uprose a warning ghost; - Whose figure, all-confused, was dire to view, - And loose his mantle flowed, of shifting hue; - _He shed a lustre round; and sadly pressed - What seemed his hand upon what seemed his breast; - Then raised his doleful voice, like wolves that roar - In famished troops round Orcas' sleepy shore,_— - “Approach yon antiquated tower,” he cried, - “There bold Rinaldo, fierce Mambrino, died,” etc. - -But I must not linger over the _Florence Miscellany_, 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. - -The first note of the concert was struck by Robert Merry, who, in -June 1787, sent to the _World_ a poem entitled _The Adieu and Recall -to Love_, 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 _World_ 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— - - Reluctant opes her eyes, 'twixt twelve and one, - To skim the _World_, or criticise the _Sun_, - And when she sees her darling friend abused - Is half enraged, yet more than half-amused. - -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:— - - Woe wait the week, Sir John, and cursed the hour, - When harmless gentlemen felt satire's power, - When, raised from insignificance and sloth, - The _World_ began to ridicule us both. - -“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. - -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 _World_, 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 _The Adieu and Recall to -Love_, in order to give some notion of the calibre of the verses which -were to found a school:— - - Go, idle Boy, I quit thy bower, - The couch of many a thorn and flower; - Thy twanging bow, thine arrow keen, - Deceitful Beauty's timid mien; - The feigned surprise, the roguish leer, - The tender smile, the thrilling tear, - Have now no pangs, no joys for me, - So fare thee well, for I am free! - Then flutter hence on wanton wing, - Or lave thee in yon lucid spring, - Or take thy beverage from the rose, - Or on Louisa's breast repose; - I wish thee well for pleasures past, - Yet, bless the hour, I'm free at last, - But sure, methinks, the altered day - Scatters around a mournful ray; - And chilling every zephyr blows, - And every stream untuneful flows. - - * * * * * - - Alas! is all this boasted ease - To lose each warm desire to please, - No sweet solicitude to know - For others' bliss, or others' woe, - A frozen apathy to find, - A sad vacuity of mind? - Oh, hasten back, then, heavenly Boy, - And with thine anguish bring thy joy! - Return with all thy torments here, - And let me hope, and doubt, and fear; - Oh, rend my heart with every pain, - But let me, let me love again. - -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. - -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 _World_, some ten days later, of “Anna Matilda,” with a poem -entitled _To Della Crusca, the Pen_. - - Oh, seize again thy golden quill, - And with its point my bosom thrill, - With magic touch explore my heart, - And bid the tear of passion start. - Thy golden quill Apollo gave, - Drenched first in bright Aonia's wave. - He snatched it fluttering through the sky, - Borne on the vapor of a sigh; - It fell from Cupid's burnished wing - As forcefully he drew the string, - Which sent his keenest, surest dart, - Through a rebellious, frozen heart, - That had, till then, defied his power, - And vacant beat through each dull hour. - Be worthy, then, the sacred loan! - Seated on Fancy's air-built throne; - Immerse it in her rainbow hues, - Nor, what the Godheads bid, refuse. - Apollo Cupid shall inspire, - And aid thee with their blended fire; - The one poetic language give, - The other bid thy passion live, - With soft ideas fill thy lays, - And crown with Love thy wintry days! - -The shuttlecock of correspondence, thus fairly started, was diligently -tossed to and fro in the _World_ 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 _furore_ and sets a fashion. - -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 _Belle's Stratagem_, 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 _The Runaway_. 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 _The Adieu and -Recall to Love_ 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. - -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:— - - Hushed be each ruder note! Soft silence spread - With ermine hand thy cobweb robe around. - - Was it the shuttle of the Morn, - That wove upon the cobweb'd thorn - Thy airy lay? - - Or in the gaudy spheroids swell - Which the swart Indian's groves illume. - - Gauzy zephyrs fluttering o'er the plain, - In Twilight's bosom drop their filmy rain. - - Bid the streamy lightnings fly - In liquid peril from thine eye. - - Summer tints begemmed the scene, - And silky ocean slept in glossy green. - -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 _Baviad_. -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.” - -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 _World_ and the _Oracle_. 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, _alias_ “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 _The Shakespeare -Gallery_, “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 _The Shakespeare Gallery_, that the patron of Crabbe did not -read it. - -Another Della Cruscan songstress was Mrs. Robinson, _alias_ “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 _Annual Register_, with a flattering encomium from the -pen of the eloquent and ingenious editor.” She was one of Merry's most -ardent admirers. - - Winged Ages picture to the dazzled view - Each marked perfection of the sacred few, - Pope, Dryden, Spenser, all that Fame shall raise, - From Chaucer's gloom, till Merry's lucid days. - -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. - -A year after his first appearance in the _World_, 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 _The Poetry -of the “World,”_ 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. _The Poetry of the “World”_ afterwards -ran through at least four editions as _The British Album_. As we -read the publisher's advertisement of this work, which still abounds -on second-hand bookstalls—_immorimur studiis lapsoque renascimur -ævo_—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 _The British -Album_, 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 _World_ for November 29th, 1787, and shines, a solitary -pearl, in the pages of the _British Album_. - -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 _Baviad_. -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 _Baviad_; 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 _The Pursuits of -Literature_, that Merry— - - Proves a designer works without design, - And fathoms Nature with a Gallic line; - -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 _The Interview_. - - My song subsides, yet ere I close - The lingering lay that feeds my woes, - Ere yet forgotten Della Crusca runs - To torrid gales or petrifying suns, - Ere, bowed to earth, my latest feeling flies, - And the big passion settles on my eyes; - Oh, may this sacred sentiment be known, - That my adoring heart is Anna's own! - -Such is the immortality of poetic attachments— - - For ever wilt thou love and she be fair. - -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. - -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 _Baviad_ “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 _Baviad_, Mathias, in the preface to _The -Pursuits of Literature_, remarks that “even the _Baviad_ 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.” - -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 _Rejected Addresses_ is a -standing monument of the vitality of Della Cruscanism more than twenty -years after its supposed death-blow. - -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 _The Old Bard's Farewell_, 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. - -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 _Lorenzo_. His reply to the remonstrances of his -aunt on the _mésalliance_ 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 _bon vivant_, 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:— - - In the midst of the massacre of Monday last, Mr. Merry, immortalized, - not by his verses, but by those of the _Baviad_, was mistaken for the - Abbé Maury, and was going to be hoisted to the _lanterne_. 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 _this_ happy country. - -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. - -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, _The -Poet's Fate_, 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 _Baviad_ 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 -_The Rights of Man_ to _Christabel_. At all events, Dyer was right in -deprecating the savagery of Gifford's satire. The question - - Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel? - -will apply to other schools and fashions besides that of the “elegant -Cesario's,” whom Leigh Hunt designated _par excellence_ as “the plague -of the Butterflies.” And here, I think, we touch upon the moral which I -promised at the outset. - -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 _World_; 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 _Punch_ -or the libretto of _Patience_, 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.—_National Review._ - - - - -THE SAVAGE. - -BY PROF. F. MAX MÜLLER. - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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, -_savage_ and _child_? - -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? - -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?” - -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. - -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. - -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 _barbari_ but _feri_—that is, savages not -very far removed from _feræ_, or wild beasts. Our own word _savage_, -and the French _sauvage_, meant originally a man who lived in the -woods, a _silvaticus_. It was at first applied to all who remained -outside the cities, who were not _cives_, or civilised, and who in -Christian times were also called _heathen_—that is, dwellers on the -heath. - -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.[10] 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. - -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:[11]— - - In former times we lived differently; each tribe had its territory; - we lived in _pas_ 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 _Kiwi_, the _Tui_, 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! - -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:— - - 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. - -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:[12]— - - 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. - -The words of another author also may be quoted, who tells us:[13]— - - 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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _at_ words, but _through_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -No one would call the ancient Brahmans savages, and yet writing was -unknown to them before the third century B.C. 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. - -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 -_sine quâ non_ 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 -“_Gare l'eau!_” 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 _kossi_) 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. - -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_n_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. - -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. - -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. - -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.[14] 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[15] 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. - -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. - -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, _progressive_ and _retrogressive_ 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, _The Unity of Nature_, 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. - -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. - -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 _pur et simple_. 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,[16] 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. - -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.[17] 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. - -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,[18] and if then we find -that one dialect of the Fuegians, the Tagan, consists of about 30,000 -words,[19] 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[20] 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 _Der Freischütz_.[21] “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.” - -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 _Two -Years Cruise of Tierra del Fuego_ (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. - -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. - -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. - -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.” - -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[22] 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. - -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 _force majeure_, -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. - -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. - -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:— - - 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. - -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. - -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? - -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. - -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 -_chien_ we still hear the Sanskrit _ṥvan_; in _journal_ we recognise -the old Vedic deity _Dyaus_. 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 _à priori_ speculations? and have we not at least a right to -demand this from our _à priori_ 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 -_à priori_ theories to run counter to _à posteriori_ 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 _à priori_ 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. - -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 _à priori_ 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. - -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 _à priori_ 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. - -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 B.C. 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 B.C., yet I have never concealed my impression that some portions -of the Veda may turn out to be of far more recent origin.[23] - -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 B.C. 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 _à -priori_ 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 _Germania_ of Tacitus. - -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 _Germania_ 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 _Germania_, and of which we find but scanty -fragments in the ancient literature of the civilising nations of the -world. - -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. - -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 _savants_ -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. - -This controversy has been carried on during several centuries. M. -Guizot, for instance, in his _History of Civilisation_ 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. - -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,”[24] 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 _paysans du Danube_. 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.[25] 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. - -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 _Germania_ “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, _De l'Angleterre_, -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. - -So little did M. Guizot perceive the unique character of the _Germania_ -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, _Si duo dicunt idem, non est idem_. - -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. - -Every attempt to place the savage who can _no longer_ be called -civilised in the place of the savage who can _not yet_ be so-called, -could only end, as it has, in utter confusion of thought. - -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. - -If we must need form theories or reason by analogy on the primitive -state of man, let us go to the nearest _ci-près_, 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. - -I know full well that when I speak of the Germans of Tacitus or of -the Aryans of the Veda as the _ci-près_ 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: _Est -quoddam prodire tenus si non datur ultra_? 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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _transitio in aliud genus_, 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. - -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. - -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.—_Nineteenth Century._ - -FOOTNOTES: - -[10] Charles Hawley, _Addresses before the Cayuga County Historical -Society_, 1883-84, p. 31. - -[11] _The King Country; or, Explorations in New Zealand_, by T. H. -Kerry; see Nicholls in the _Academy_, Aug. 23, 1884, p. 113. - -[12] _The League of the Iroquois_, p. 12. - -[13] Hawley, _l.c._, p. 17. - -[14] See, however, Daniel Wilson, _Pre-Aryan American Man_, p. 47. - -[15] _Unity of Nature_, p. 393. - -[16] _The Indians in the United States._—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 _Yapi Oaye_, 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.—_Times_, Sept. 8, 1884. - -[17] See Hawley, _l.c._, p. 31. - -[18] _Lectures on Science of Language_, vol. i. p. 308. - -[19] See Giacomo Bove, _Viaggio alla Patagonia ed alla Terra del -Fuoco_, in _Nuova Antologia_, Dec. 15, 1881. - -[20] _Travels_, Deutsch von Dieffenbach. Braunschweig, 1844, p. 229. - -[21] Darwin, _Narrative of the Surveying Voyage of H.M.'s Ships -“Adventure” and “Beagle,”_ 1839, vol. iii. p. 226. - -[22] D. Wilson, _Pre-Aryan American Man_, p. 4. - -[23] _Rig-Veda-Sanhita, the Sacred Hymns of the Brahmans, translated by -M. M._, Vol. i. p. xxxix. - -[24] Tertullian, _Apolog._ 16: “rabula et mendaciorum loquacissimus.” - -[25] See Strabo, iv. 196; Plin. xvii. 12; Liv. xxxviii. 17. - - - - -LE BONHOMME CORNEILLE. - -BY HENRY M. TROLLOPE. - - -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. - -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 _Le Cid_. At Christmastime in that year -this play burst upon Paris. As a bombshell carries with it destruction, -the _Cid_ 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 _Cid_.” -If the good folk in Paris had only bethought themselves in 1836 of -celebrating the bi-centenary of the appearance of the _Cid_ 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. - -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 _Tite et Bérénice_, and it was played alternately -with _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_. 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. - -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: - - En matière d'amour je suis fort inégal, - Je l'écris assez bien, je le fais assez mal; - J'ai la plume féconde et la bouche stérile, - Bon galant au théâtre et fort mauvais en ville; - Et l'on peut rarement m'écouter sans ennui - Que quand je me produis par la bouche d'autrui. - -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.” - -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 _Cid_, he was proud of his calling. He gloried in being -one of the dramatic authors of his time. He says:— - - Le théâtre est un fief dont les rentes sont bonnes. - -And also:— - - Mon travail sans appui monte sur le théâtre, - Chacun en liberté l'y blâme ou l'idolâtre. - -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 _Cid_ by the Academy. - - “En vain, contre le _Cid_ un ministre se ligue, - Tout Paris pour Chimène a les yeux de Rodrigue; - L'Académie en corps a beau le censurer, - Le public révolté s'obstine à l'admirer.” - -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 _Imitatione Christi_. -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” (_Horace_, 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:— - - Je ne dois qu'à moi seul toute ma renommée. - - —_Gentleman's Magazine._ - - - - -CHARLES DICKENS AT HOME. - -WITH ESPECIAL REFERENCE TO HIS RELATIONS WITH CHILDREN. - -BY HIS ELDEST DAUGHTER. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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! - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _can_ 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. - -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. - -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 -_never_ be blotted out. - -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. - -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:— - -“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.” - -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. - -There are so many people, good, kind, and affectionate, but who can -_not_ remember that they once were children themselves, and looked out -upon the world with a child's eyes _only_! - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _did_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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.” - -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 _looking_ -at his daughter, but certainly never _seeing_ 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 _out_ of himself and _into_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _out_-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 _he_ certainly could. - -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 _this_, 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!” - -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 _him_. 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. - -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. - -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. - -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:— - - _This is the grave of - DICK, - The best of birds. - Born at Broadstairs, Midsr. 1851. - Died at Gad's Hill Place, 14th Oct., 1866._ - -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. - -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 _not_ 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. - -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 “_Please_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -It is a common saying now in the family of some dear friends, where -punctuality is not _quite_ 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!” - -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.” - -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. - -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. - -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 _menu_ 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. - -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 _he_ had to that word, are thankful that he was spared -the agony of that last, long Farewell. - -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. - -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 _he_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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.—_Cornhill -Magazine._ - - - - -THE SUMMER PALACE, PEKING. - -BY C. F. GORDON CUMMING. - - -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. - -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! - -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! - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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 A.M., 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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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! - -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.[26] - -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 A.D. 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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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). - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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.—_Belgravia._ - -FOOTNOTES: - -[26] 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. - - - - -THE CAMORRA. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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.—_Saturday Review._ - - - - -THE DECAY OF IRISH HUMOR. - - -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 _Pall Mall Gazette_, 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 -_Kottabos_, 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 _Kottabos_ is no more, and the goodly -company of _Kottabistæ_ finally disbanded. - -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 _anathema_,—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.e._, jokers, merry fellows—which is -not likely to be remedied in this generation. Even in former years, -before the _entente cordiale_ 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:— - - “The bare, barren mountains and bog, I must state, - The poor Irish farmer he must cultivate; - Whilst the land-shark is watching - His chance underhand, - To gobble his labor, his house, and his land. - But the Devil is fishing, and he'll soon get a pull, - Of those bad landlords and agents - His net is near full.... - Then hurrah! for the Land League, - And Parnell so brave; - Each bad landlord, my boys, - We'll muzzle him tight. - May the banner of freedom - And green laurels wave - O'er the men of the Land League, - And Parnell so brave.” - -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.—_The Spectator._ - - - - -PRINCE BISMARCK'S CHARACTER. - -The late general election in Germany showed results which have signally -verified Prince Bismarck's calculations on the tendencies of modern -democracy. - -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[27]: “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 -_bourgeois_.” - -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 _Conflikt-Zeit_, 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.” - -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.”[28] - -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. - -“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. - -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.” - -Bismarck was born in 1814, and at the age of seventeen went to the -University of Göttingen. Here he joined a _Verbindung_—one of those -student associations whose members wear flat caps of many colors, -hold interminable _Kneipen_ or beer-carousals, and fight rapier duels -with the members of other clubs. Bismarck's _Verbindung_ 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.[29] 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. - -This series of duels had some important consequences. A satirical -paper called _Der Floh_ (_The Flea_), 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. - -At this time, however, Bismarck's principles were not yet well set. -The son of a Pomeranian squire, he had the _Junker's_ 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.” - -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? - -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.” - -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. “_Cent imbéciles ne font pas un sage_,” said Voltaire, -and though La Rochefoucauld inclines to the contrary opinion in some -of his well-known aphorisms,[30] 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 -_bon enfant_ side of the popular character. - -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!” - -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.[31] - -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.” “_Nein_, but you need not -waste your marks,“ demurred the Chancellor, ”_es gibt immer Esel genug, -die schreien unbezahlt_.” (There are always asses to bray gratis). - -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 _going_ to do, or to apologize for what -they have left undone.” - -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.” - -Action fascinates the masses as much as speech,[32] for it demands -courage, which is of all virtues the rarest.[33] 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.” - -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 _Brauerei_ 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 _Junker_ 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. - -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 _coup d'état_. 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 _gaminerie_ in so unfavorable a light to -the King that his Majesty instructed the Foreign Office to read the -newly appointed diplomatist a severe lecture. - -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 _which relate to France_—also -the verse in the Psalms which says that 'The unbeliever shall be rooted -out.'” - -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.”[34] - -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. “_Panem -et circenses_,” smiled De Morny. “_Panem et saturnalia_,” muttered -Bismarck. - -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, _diseurs de rien_ and cajolers -of the other sex. “A French Ambassador,” he maintained, “should -always consider himself accredited _auprès des reines_.” 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 _entourage_. 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.” - -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.[35] - -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 _Nationalverein_, -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 _Conflikt-Zeit_. -Opposition, as Bismarck has often taken care to impress upon his -hearers, shall never be _regierungsfähig_ 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 _maires du palais_ 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. - -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. - -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—“_Der Affe_,” 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. - -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 -”_Schafsköpf_.” 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 _Schafsköpf_; and for the -rest, you may tell the Chancellor that I have not been trained to turn -somersaults.”[36] - -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. - -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 “_die Wespen_” 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. -“_Er is kein Journaliste!_” exclaimed a too zealous partisan-writer, -who had gone to the Chancellerie with a proposal for creating in -Berlin a newspaper like the Paris _Figaro_, “_er könne sich nicht -auf die feine Malice zu verstehen_.” 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.[37] - -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 _Galerie des -Réprouvés_—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. - -It is more likely that the Pope aspires to some political -_rapprochement_ 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.—_Temple Bar._ - -FOOTNOTES: - -[27] Lassalle was killed in a duel in 1864, at the age of thirty-nine. - -[28] 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.” - - “Der mann ist gross, doch ist es nicht die Grösse, - Welche ich suche und gebrauchen kann.” - - -[29] 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.” - -[30] “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.” - -[31] 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.” - -[32] 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 _Letters_ 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. - -[33] 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.” - -[34] 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. - -[35] 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.” - -[36] 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.” - -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 -_Landwehr_ or the _Landsturm_, so that the Chancellor as a general of -the _Landwehr_ 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. - -[37] 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. - - - - -A FEW NOTES ON PERSIAN ART. - - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _ustad -nakosh_ (master-painter), a term used to distinguish the artist from -the mere portrait-painter or _akkas_, 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. - -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. - -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 _papier-mâché_. The details were given to the artist by the writer -in conversation, sketched by him in white paint on the _papier mâché_ -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 _mise en scène_ is very correct. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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 -_kalamdans_, 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 _papier-mâché_ -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. - -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. - -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 _plaques_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -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 -_raison d'être_ 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 _Arabian Nights_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _Schamayūl_ (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 _Seyyuds_ 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. - -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. - -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.—_Chambers's Journal._ - - - - -HOW INSECTS BREATHE. - -BY THEODORE WOOD. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - - * * * * * - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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? - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -The Water Scorpion affords us an instance of a perfectly different -structure. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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.—_Good Words._ - - - - -PIERRE'S MOTTO: - -A CHACUN SELON SON TRAVAIL. - -A TALK IN A PARISIAN WORKSHOP ABOUT THE UNEQUAL DISTRIBUTION OF WEALTH. - -“_A chacun selon son travail_, 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.” - -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. - -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. - -“I was just saying when you came in,” he began, “_A chacun selon son -travail_, To each man according to his work. Don't you think that a -good motto?” - -“Well, it sounds good, but it depends how you apply it, and what you -are talking about.” - -“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!” - -“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.” - -“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. _A chacun selon son -travail._ The riches ought to be with those that work. That's my way of -looking at it.” - -“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?” - -“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!” - -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. - -“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, _A chacun selon son -travail_. 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.” - -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. - -“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 _carte -blanche_, let us hear what you would do.” - -“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. _A chacun selon son -travail_: behold my fundamental rule!” - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“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?” - -“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.” - -“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.” - -“Well, perhaps; but at all events there would be none too rich or too -poor.” - -“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.” - -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.” - -“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. _A -chacun selon son travail_, 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!” - -“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, _A chacun le produit -de son travail_, will have this good result, that it will render -impossible the existence of rich idle people who pass their life in -doing nothing.” - -“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?” - -“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 _rentiers_, -as they call them, or idle people, who live on their income, or the -interest of their money.” - -“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?” - -“Assuredly.” - -“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.” - -“Yes, it is a consequence of my principle, _A chacun le produit de son -travail_. He who creates wealth has the right to dispose of it as he -pleases. But what has that to do with your argument?” - -“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 _rentier_.” - -Never,” said Pierre, “never. If I allowed such parasites to exist in my -new society it would be no better than the old.” - -“Then don't talk any more about your motto, _A chacun le produit de -son travail_. 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 _rentier_, 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.” - -“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?” - -“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.”—_Leisure Hour._ - - - - -BEHIND THE SCENES. - -BY F. C. BURNAND. - - -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? - -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. - -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, _quâ_ actor, had no more status in society than -the professional beggar with whom he was unjustly classed. - - “The strolling tribe, a despicable race, - Like wandering Arabs, shift from place to place.” - -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 _status_ 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, _prima facie_, 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 _plus_ the social position implied -by his profession. - -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. - -As a barrister on circuit I have supposed him received _quâ_ barrister -with his legal brethren; as an officer, quartered in a garrison town, -we know he will be received _quâ_ 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 -_because_ he is a player, _therefore_ 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. - -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. - -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? - -We must put out of the case entirely all instances of genius. An -histrionic genius _will_ 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 _feu sacré_. 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 _place aux dames_, when -professions are concerned. - -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. - -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? - -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.e._, “theatrical” life. - -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 _Caste_ 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 _Monsieur et Madame Cardinal_ has put before his -readers very plainly. The scenes in Georges Ohnet's _Lise Flueron_ 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 -_A Mummer's Wife_, 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.e._, 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?” - -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 _sine quâ non_, 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.[38] 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 _do_ 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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _feu sacré_, 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. - -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 -_entrée_ 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. - -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 _not_ 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. - -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. - -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.” - -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. - -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.—_Fortnightly Review._ - -FOOTNOTES: - -[38] The process of obtaining an engagement is the same for a lady as -a gentleman, _i.e._ a visit to an agent's office, &c., &c. Here is an -advertisement which evidently offers a rare chance:— - -“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).” - - - - -GO TO THE ANT. - -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. - -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—_vitia privata humana commoda_. 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. - -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, _melle et felle_. 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? - -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. - -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. - -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.” - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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 _en masse_, 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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -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. - -There are yet other ants, such as the workerless _Anergates_, 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 _Anergates_ 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.—_Cornhill Magazine._ - - - - -LITERARY NOTICES. - - - EPISODES OF MY SECOND LIFE. By Antonio Gallenga (Luigi Mariotti). - English and American Experiences. Philadelphia: _J. B. Lippincott & - Co._ - -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 _raconteur_, 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 _Times_, 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. - -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 -_Sedischi_ 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 _naïveté_, 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 _con amore_. 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 _Times_ 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. - - - 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. By Louis Heilprin. New York: _D. - Appleton & Co._ - -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. - - - BERMUDA: AN IDYLL OF THE SUMMER ISLANDS. By Julia C. R. Dorr. New - York: _Charles Scribner's Sons_. - -The germ of this book was in an article called “Bermudan Days” -published in the _Atlantic Monthly_ 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. - - - ELEMENTS OF ZOOLOGY. (_Appleton's Science Text-Books._) 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: _D. Appleton & Co._ - -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. - - - THE REALITY OF RELIGION. By Henry J. Van Dyke, Jr., D.D. New York: - _Charles Scribner's Sons_. - -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—_the longing for personal fellowship with God_.” -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. - - - THE ENCHIRIDION OF WIT: THE BEST SPECIMENS OF ENGLISH CONVERSATIONAL - WIT. Philadelphia: _J. B. Lippincott & Co._ - -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. - - - - -FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES. - - -THE monument to Virgil at Pietole (which is supposed to be the Andes of -the Romans), near Mantua, was unveiled lately. - - * * * * * - -THE death of a popular Russian novelist, B. M. Markievich, on the 30th -of last month, is reported from St. Petersburg. - - * * * * * - -THE 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. - - * * * * * - -A PAMPHLET 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 _brochure_ tells what she heard and saw of -Madame Blavatsky and the Theosophists with whom she came in contact in -India and elsewhere. - - * * * * * - -TRINITY COLLEGE, Dublin, is about to start a new paper with the -title _The Dublin University Review_. 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. - - * * * * * - -THE 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. - - * * * * * - -A CONFERENCE 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. - - * * * * * - -THE 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. - - * * * * * - -MR. LOWE, correspondent of the _Times_ at Berlin, is engaged in writing -a biography of Prince Bismarck, which will appear next spring. - - * * * * * - -M. SCHLUMBERGER, the well known numismatist, and M. Benoist have -lately been elected members of the Académie des Inscriptions et -Belles-Lettres. - - * * * * * - -AN exhibition is to be held in the Imperial Library at Constantinople -of Turkish writing, bookbinding, and illumination, for which prizes are -to be given. - - * * * * * - -ONE 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. - - * * * * * - -THE 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. - - * * * * * - -WE are enabled to state, says the _Athenæum_, 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.” - - * * * * * - -MR. ALEXANDER DEL MAR, according to the _Academy_, formerly Director -of the Bureau of Statistics of the United States, whose _History of -the Precious Metals_ was published in 1880, has in the press a work -on _The History of Money from the Earliest Times to the Middle Ages_, -upon which he has been occupied for many years past. It will shortly be -published by Messrs. Bell & Sons. - - * * * * * - -FROM the _Academy_ we quote the following amusing paragraph: - -“The _Magazin für die Literatur des In- und Auslandes_ 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 _Magazin_ of -January 10 publishes an 'English' translation of this poem, by Johanna -Baltz, from which we quote the following specimen:— - - “'To finches and swallows tells sweet nightingale: - “The song of a violin fills woodland and vale! - Ye twitt'ners, ye singers, now silence your cant— - Hark, Heini von Steier returned to his land!” - - “'Shoemaker is waving his furcap in glee: - “The merciful heaven forgets neven me! - Now shoes will be costly, soleleather gets scant— - Hark, Heini von Steier returned to his land.“'” - - * * * * * - -THE 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. - - * * * * * - -MR. C. E. PASCOE 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. - - * * * * * - -AN 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 A.H. 275; but according to Ibn Kāni' (Leyden Catalogue, vol. ii. -p. 8) he lived on to A.H. 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.e._, A.H. 279. - - * * * * * - -AMONG 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 A.H. 257, a twelfth century copy; -“Zubdat al-Tawarikh,” a history of the Seljuk-dynasty, written shortly -after its extinction, about A.H. 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 A.H. 316, handsomely written, with all -vowels, A.H. 651; a fine and valuable copy of the “Makamat al-Hariri,” -written by a grandson of the author, A.H. 557 (_i.e._, forty years -after Hariri's death), and consequently earlier than any copy of that -standard work known to exist in European libraries. - - * * * * * - -THE 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. - - * * * * * - -IT is not generally known that the _Times_ 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 _Nineteenth Century_. -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 _Times_ in the case of Bogle _v._ Lawson in 1841, by a -committee of bankers and merchants of the City, in the Royal Exchange, -and over the entrance to the _Times_ 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 _Nineteenth Century_ is a piece of historical -information which will be novel to most readers. - - * * * * * - -THE last number of _Shakspeariana_ 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:— - -“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.” - - - - -MISCELLANY. - - -SOME PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF GEORGE SAND.—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 _table d'hôte_—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 '_les Anglaises_,' -and on the '_étranges sifflements_' 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 '_n'en savait rien_,' -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, -'_ma foi_,' of which she had read one or two—instancing a couple of the -best—were not '_grande chose_.' 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 _esprit_. -Of '_esprit Gallois_' 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.“—_Spectator._ - - * * * * * - -THE AMERICAN SENATE.—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 _Ständerath_ -or _Conseil des États_, 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 -_Nationalrath_, 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.—_Contemporary Review._ - - * * * * * - -SHAKESPEARE AND BALZAC.—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 ”_Le -Père Goriot_.” 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 “_Le Père Goriot_,” 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 “_Le Père Goriot_” 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 _noblesse_, 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 -_naïveté_ 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.—_Longman's -Magazine._ - - * * * * * - -THE DREAD OF OLD AGE.—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.—_Spectator._ - -A TRUE CRITIC.—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.—_Art Journal._ - - * * * * * - -Transcriber's Notes - -Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. 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